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A   TRAGEDY, 


BY  LORD  BYRON, 


PHILADELHIA: 


PUBLISHED  BY  H.  C.  CAREY  AND  I.  LEA, 

1823. 


B^nWB 


TO 


THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  GOETHE, 


BY  ONE  OF  HIS  HUMBLEST  ADMIBEBS, 


THIS   TRAGEDY 


19  DEDICATED, 


PREFACE. 


The  following  drama  is  taken  entirely  from 
the  "  German's  Tale,  Kruitzner"  published 
many  years  ago  in  "  Lee's  Canterbury  Tales  /" 
written  (I  believe)  by  two  sisters,  of  whom 
one  furnished  only  this  story  and  another, 
both  of  which  are  considered  superior  to  the 
remainder  of  the  collection.  I  have  adopted 
the  characters,  plan,  and  even  the  language, 
of  many  parts  of  this  story.  Some  of  the 
characters  are  modified  or  altered,  a  few  of 
the  names  changed,  and  one  character  (Ida  of 
Stralenheim)  added  by  myself:  but  in  the 
rest  the  original  is  chiefly  followed.  When 
I  was  young  (about  fourteen,  I  think)  I  first 
read  this  tale,  which  made  a  deep  impression 
upon  me ;  and  may,  indeed,  be  said  to  con- 
tain the  germ  of  much  that  I  have  since  writ- 
ten. I  am  not  sure  that  it  ever  was  very 
popular  ;  or,  at  any  rate,  its  popularity  has 
since  been  eclipsed  by  that  of  other  great 
writers  in  the  same  department.  But  I  have 
generally  found  that  those  .who  had  read  it, 
agreed  with  me  in  their  estimate  of  the  sjn- 
a2 


VI  PREFACE. 

gular  power  of  mind  and  conception  which  it 
developes.  I  should  also  add  conception, 
rather  than  execution ;  for  the  story  might, 
perhaps,  have  been  more  developed  with 
greater  advantage.  Amongst  those  whose 
opinions  agreed  with  mine  upon  this  story,  I 
could  mention  some  very  high  names  ;  but  it 
is  not  necessary,  nor  indeed  of  any  use  ;  for 
every  one  must  judge  according  to  their  own 
feelings.  I  merely  refer  the  reader  to  the 
original  story,  that  he  may  see  to  what  extent 
I  have  borrowed  from  it ;  and  am  not  un- 
willing that  he  should  find  much  greater  plea- 
sure in  perusing  it  than  the  drama  which  is 
founded  upon  its  contents. 

I  had  begun  a  drama  upon  this  tale  so  far 
back  as  1815  (the  first  I  ever  attempted,  ex- 
cept one  at  thirteen  years  old,  called  "  Ulric 
and  Ilvina"  which  I  had  sense  enough  to 
burn),  and  had  nearly  completed  an  act,  when 
I  was  interrupted  by  circumstances.  This  is 
somewhere  amongst  my  papers  in  England  ; 
but  as  it  has  not  been  found,  I  have  re-written 
the  first,  and  added  the  subsequent  acts. 

The  whole  is  neither  intended,  nor  in  any 
shape  adapted,  for  the  stage, 

Feb.  1822. 


WERNER. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


MEN. 


Werner. 

Ulric. 

Stralenheim. 

Idenstein. 

Gabor. 

Fritz. 

Hen  rick. 

Eric. 

Arnheim. 

Meister. 

RODOLPH. 
LUDWIG. 

WOMEN. 

Josephine. 

Ida  Stralenheim. 


Scene — —Partly  on  the  frontier  of  Silesia,  and 
partly  in  Siegendorf  Castle,  near  Prague. 

Time— —The  close  of  the  thirty  years'  war. 


WERNER; 

OR, 

THE  INHERITANCE. 

ACT  I.     SCENE  I. 

The  Hall  of  a  decayed  Palace  near  a  small  Town 
on  the  northern  Frontier  of  Silesia — the  Might 
tempestuous. 

Werner  and  Josephine  his  wife. 

JOSEPHINE. 

My  love,  be  calmer  ! 

WERNER. 

I  am  calm. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Tome- 
Yes,  but  not  to  thyself:  thy  pace  is  hurried, 
And  no  one  walks  a  chamber  like  to  ours 
With  steps  like  thine  when  his  heart  is  at  rest. 
Were  it  a  garden,  I  should  deem  thee  happy, 
And  stepping  with  the  bee  from  flower  to  flower ; 
But  here  J 

WERNER. 

*Tis  chill ;  the  tapestry  lets  through 
The  wind  to  which  it  waves  :  my  blood  is  frozen. 


10  WERNER,  act  i. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Ah,  no ! 

Werner  (smiling) 
Why  \  wouldst  thou  have  it  so  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

I  would 
Have  it  a  healthful  current. 

WERNER. 

Let  it  flow 
Until  'tis  spilt  or  check'd — how  soon,  I  care  not. 

JOSEPHINE. 

And  am  I  nothing  in  thy  heart  ? 

WERNER. 

All— all. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Then  canst  thou  wish  for  that  which  must  break 

mine  ? 

werner  {approaching  her  slowly). 
But  for  thee  I  had  been — no  matter  what, 
But  much  of  good  and  evil ;  what  I  am, 
Thou  knowest ;  what  I  might  or  should  have 

been, 
Thou  knowest  not :  but  still  I  love  thee,  nor 
Shall  aught  divide  us. 

£  Werner  walks  on  abruptly,  and  then  approach- 
es Josephine. 

The  storm  of  the  night, 
Perhaps,  affects  me ;  I'm  a  thing  of  feelings, 
And  have  of  late  been  sickly,  as,  alas  ! 
Thou  know' st  by  sufferings  more  than  mine, 

my  love  ! 
In  watching  me. 

JOSEPHINE. 

To  see  thee  well  is  much — 
To  see  thee  happy 


sc.  I.  A  TRAGEDY.  1 1 

WERNER. 

Where  hast  thou  seen  such  ? 
Let  me  be  wretched  with  the  rest ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

But  think 
How  many  in  this  hour  of  tempest  shiver 
~f  Beneath  the  biting  wind  and  heavy  rain, 

Whose  every  drop  bows  them  down  nearer  earth, 
Which  hath  no  chamber  for  them  save  beneath 
Her  surface. 

WERNER. 

And  that's  not  the  worst :  who  cares 
For  chambers  ?  rest  is  all.  The  wretches  whom 
Thou  namest — ay,  the  wind  howls  round  them, 
and 
1  The  dull  and  dropping  rain  saps  in  their  bones 
The  creeping  marrow.     I  have  been  a  soldier, 
A  hunter,  and  a  traveller,  and  am 
A  beggar,  and  should  know   the  thing    thou 
talk'st  of. 

JOSEPHINE. 

And  art  thou  not  now  shelter'd  from  them  all  ? 

WERNER. 

Yes.    And  from  these  alone. 

JOSEPHINE. 

And  that  is  something. 

WERNER. 

True — to  a  peasant. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Should  the  nobly  bom 
Be  thankless  for  that  refuge  which  their  habits 
Of  early  delicacy  render  more 
Needful  than  to  the  peasant,  when  the  ebb 
(  Of  fortune  leaves  them  on  the  shoals  of  life  I 


12  WERNER,  act  r. 

WERNER. 

It  is  not  that,  thou  know'st  it  is  not ;  we 
Have  borne  all  this,  I'll  not  say  patiently, 
Except  in  thee— but  we  have  bome  it. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Well? 

WERNER. 

Something  beyond  our  outward  sufferings  (tho' 
These  were  enough  to  gnaw  into  our  souls) 
Hath  stung  me  oft,  and,  more  than  ever,  now. 
When,  but  for  this  untoward  sickness,  which 
Seized  me  upon  this  desolate  frontier,  and 
Hath  wasted,  not  alone  my  strength,  but  means, 
And  leaves  us — no  !  this  is  beyond  me  ! — but 
For  this  I  had  been  happy — thou  been  happy— 
The  splendour  of  my  rank  sustain'd — my  name — 
My  father's  name — been  still  upheld ;  and,  more 

Than  those 

Josephine  (abruptly}. 

My  son — our  son— our  Ulric, 
Been  clasp'd  again  in  these  long  empty  arms, 
And  all  a  mother's  hunger  satisfied. 
Twelve  years  !  he  was  but  eight  then :— .beauti- 

ful 
He  was,  and  beautiful  he  must  be  now. 
My  Ulric  !  my  adored  ! 

WERNER. 

I  have  been  full  oft 
The  chace  of  fortune ;  now  she  hath  o'ertaken 
My  spirit  where  it  cannot  turn  at  bay, 
Sick,  poor,  and  lonely. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Lonely  !  my  dear  husband  ? 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  13 

WERNER. 

Or  worse— involving  all  I  love,  in  this 

Far  worse  than  solitude.     Alone,  I  had  died, 

And  all  been  over  in  a  nameless  grave. 

JOSEPHINE. 

And  I  had  not  outlived  thee  ;  but  pray  take 
Comfort!  We  have  struggled  long; ,  and  they 

who  strive 
With  fortune  win  or  weary  her  at  last, 
So  that  they  find  the  goal,  or  cease  to  feel 
■    Further.  Take  comfort, — we  shall  find  our  boy. 

WERNER. 

We  were  in  sight  of  him,  of  every  thing 
Which  could  bring  compensation  for  past  sor= 

row — 
And  to  be  baffled  thus ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

We  are  not  baffled. 

WERNER. 

Are  we  not  pennyless  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

We  ne'er  were  wealthy  • 

WERNER. 

;  But  I  was  born  to  wealth,  and  rank,  and  power; 
Enjoyed  them,  loved  them,  and,  alas  !  abused 

them, 
And  forfeited  them  by  my  father's  wrath, 
In  my  o'er-fervent  youth  ;  but  for  the  abuse 
Long  sufferings  have  atoned.  My  father's  death 
Left  the  path  open,  yet  not  without  snares, 
-f  This  cold  and  creeping  kinsman,  who  so  long 
Kept  his  eye  on  me,  as  the  snake  upon 
The  fluttering  bird,  hath  ere  this  time  outstept 

me, 
Become  the  master  of  my  rights,  and  lord  j    * 


14  WERNER,  act  i. 

Of  that  which  lifts  him  up  to  princes  in 
Dominion  and  domain. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Who  knows  ?  our  son 
May  have  return'd  back  to  his  grandsire,  and 
Even  now  uphold  thy  rights  for  thee  ? 

WERNER. 

'Tis  hopeless. 
Since  his  strange  disappearance  from  my  fa- 
ther's, 
Entailing,  as  it  were,  my  sins  upon 
Himself,  no  tidings  have  reveal'd  his  course. 

f*"I  parted  with  him  to  his  grandsire,  on 
The  promise  that  his  anger  would  stop  short 
Of  the  third  generation ;«'  but  Heaven  seems 

|    To  claim  her  stern  prerogative,}  and  visit 
Upon  my  boy  his  father's  faults  and  follies. 

JOSEPHINE. 

I  must  hope  better  still, — at  least  we  have  yet 
Baffled  the  long  pursuit  of  Stralenheim. 

WERNER. 

We  should  have  done,  but  for  this  fatal  sickness, 

More  fatal  than  a  mortal  malady, 

Because  it  takes  not  life,  but  life's  sole  solace  : 

Even  now  I  feel  my  spirit  girt  about 

By  the  snares  of  this  avaricious  fiend  ; — 

How  do  I  know  he  hath  not  track'd  us  here  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

He  does  not  know  thy  person ;  and  his  spies, 
Who  so  long  watch'd  thee,  have  been  left  at 

Hamburgh. 
Our  unexpected  journey,  and  this  change 
Of  name,  leaves  all  discovery  far  behind  : 
None  hold  us  here  for  aught  save  what  we  seem. 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  15 

WKRNER. 

Save  what  we  seem !    save  what  we  are— sick 

beggars, 
Even  to  our  very  hopes.         Ha  !  ha  ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Alas! 
That  bitter  laugh  ! 

WERNER. 

Who  would  read  in  this  form 
"4-  The  high  soul  of  the  son  of  a  long  line  ? 
Who,  in  this  garb,  the  heir  of  princely  lands  ? 
Who,  in  this  sunken,  sickly  eye,  the  pride 
Of  rank  and  ancestry  ?  in  this  worn  cheek, 
And  famine-hollow'd  brow,  the  lord  of  halls, 
Which  daily  feast  a  thousand  vassals  ?         4. 

JOSEPHINE. 

You 
(Ponder'd  not  thus  upon  these  worldly  things,} 
My  Werner  !  ! when  you  deign'd  to  choose  for 

bride 
The  foreign  daughter  of  a  wandering  exile» 

WERNER. 

An  exile's  daughter  with  an  outcast  son 
Were  a  fit  marriage ;  but  I  still  had  hopes 
To  lift  thee  to  the  state  we  both  were  born  for,) 
Your  father's  house  was  noble,  though  decay'd; 
And  worthy  by  its  birth  to  match  with  ours.] 

JOSEPHINE. 

Your  father  did  not  think  so,  though  'twas  noble ; 
But  had  my  birth  been  all  my  claim  to  match 
With  thee,  I  should  have  deem'd  it  what  it  is. 

WERNER. 

And  what  is  that  in  thine  eyes  ? 

JOSEPHINE.^ 

All  which  it 


16  WERNER.  act  i. 

Has  done  in  our  behalf, — nothing. 

WERNER. 

How, — nothing  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

■*  Or  worse  ;  for  it  has  been  a  canker  in 
Thy  heart  from  the  beginning  :*  but  for  this, 

,  We  had  not  felt  our  poverty,  but  as 
Millions  of  myriads  feel  it,  cheerfully ; 
But  for  these  phantoms  of  thy  feudal  fathers, 
Thou  might'st  have  earn'd  thy  bread,  as  thou- 
sands earn  it ; 
Or,  if  that  seem  too  humble,  tried  by  commerce, 

./  Or  other  civic  means,  to  amend  thy  fortunes.  , 
werner  [ironically). 
And  been  an  Hanseatic  burgher  ?    Excellent  I 

JOSEPHINE. 

■*  Whate'er  thou  might'st  have  been,  to  me  thou 
art, 
What  no  state  high  or  low  can  ever  change, 
•  My   heart's  first  choice ; — which  chose  thee, 

knowing  neither 
\  Thy  birth,  thy  hopes,  thy  pride  ;  nought,  save 

thy  sorrows  : 
"  While  they  last,  let  me  comfort  or  divide  them ; 
When  they  end,  let  mine  end  with  them,  or  thee  I 

WERNER. 

My  better  angel !  such  I  have  ever  found  thee;} 
This  rashness,  or  this  weakness  of  my  temper, 
.Ne'er  raised  a  thought  to  injure  thee  or  thine.1} 
Thou  didst  not  mar  my  fortunes :  my  own  nature 
In  youth  was  such  as  to  unmake  an  empire, 
Had  such  been  my  inheritance  ;  but  now, 
Chasten'd,  subdued,  out-worn,  and  taught  to 

know 
Myself, — to  lose  this  for  our  son  and  thee  ! 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  17 

Trust  me,  when,  in  my  two-and-twentieth  spring 
My  father  barr'd  me  from  my  father's  house, 
The  last  sole  scion  of  a  thousand  sires, 
'  (For  I  was  then  the  last,)  it  hurt  me  less 
I  Than  to  behold  my  boy  and  my  boy's  mother 
Excluded  in  their  innocence  from  what 
My  faults  deserved  exclusion  ;  although  then 
My  passions  were  all  living  serpents,  and 
Twined  like  the  gorgon's  round  me. 

\_A  knocking  is  heard. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Hark ! 

WERNER. 

A  knocking ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Who  can  it  be  at  this  lone  hour  ?  we  have 
Few  visitors. 

WERNER. 

And  poverty  hath  none, 
Save  those  who  come  to  make  it  poorer  still. 
Well,  I  am  prepared. 

^Werner  puts  his  hand  into  his  bosom  as  if 
to  search  for  some  weapon. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Oh  !  do  not  look  so.     I 
Will  to  the  door,  it  cannot  be  of  import 
vln  this  lone  spot  of  wintry  desolation—) 
\  The  very  desert  saves  man  from  mankind. 

\J$he  goes  to  the  door. 

Enter  Idenstein. 

IDENSTEIN. 

A  fair  good  evening  to  my  fairer  hostess 

And  worthy what's  your  name,  my  friend  ? 

b  2 


18  WERNER,  act  i. 

WERNER. 

Are  you 
Not  afraid  to  demand  it  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Not  afraid  ? 
Egad  !  I  am  afraid.     You  look  as  if 
I  ask'd  for  something  better  than  your  name, 
By  the  face  you  put  on  it. 

WERNER. 

Better,  sir ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

Better  or  worse,  like  matrimony,  what 

Shall  I  say  more  ?    You  have  been  a  guest  this 

month 
Here  in  the  prince's  palace — (to  be  sure, 
His  highness  had  resign'd  it  to  the  ghosts 
And  rats  these  twelve  years — but  'tis  still  a 

palace)— 
I  say  you  have  been  our  lodger,  and  as  yet 
We  do  not  know  your  name. 

WERNER. 

My  name  is  Werner. 

IDENSTEIN. 

A  goodly  name,  a  very  worthy  name 
As  e'er  was  gilt  upon  a  trader's  board  ; 
I  have  a  cousin  in  the  lazaretto 
Of  Hamburgh,  who  has  got  a  wife  who  bore 
The  same.     He  is  an  officer  of  trust, 
Surgeon's  assistant  (hoping  to  be  surgeon), 
And  has  done  miracles  i'  the  way  of  business. 
Perhaps  you  are  related  to  my  relative  ? 

WERNER. 

To  yours  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

Oh,  yes ;  we  are,  but  distantly. 

[Aside  to  Werner. 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  19 

Cannot  you  humour  the  dull  gossip  till 
We  learn  his  purpose  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Well,  I'm  glad  of  that ; 
I  thought  so  all  along  ;|.such  natural  yearnings 
Play'd    round  my  heart—blood   is  not  water, 

cousin  ; 
And  so  let's  have  some  wine,  and  drink  unto    0 
Our  better  acquaintance  :  relatives  should  be 
Friends.}' 

WERNER. 

You  appear  to  have  drank  enough  already, 
And  if  you  had  not,  I've  no  wine  to  offer, 
Else  it  were  yours ;  but  this  you  know,  or  should 

know : 
You  see  I  am  poor,  and  sick,  and  will  not  see 
That  I  would  be  alone  ;  but  to  your  business  ! 
What  brings  you  here  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Why,  what  should  bring  me  here  ? 

WERNER. 

I  know  not,  though  I  think  that  I  could  guess 
That  which  will  send  you  hence. 
josephine  (aside). 

Patience,  dear  Werner  S 

IDENSTEIN. 

You  don't  know  what  has  happen'd,  then  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

How  should  we  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

The  river  has  o'erflow'd. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Alas  !  we  have  known 
That  to  our  sorrow,  for  these  five  days ;  since 
It  keeps  us  here. 


20  WERNER,  act  i. 

IDENSTEIN. 

But  what  you  don't  know  is, 
That  a  great  personage,  who  fain  would  cross 
Against  the  stream,  and  three  postillions'  wishes, 
Is  drown'd  below  the  ford,  with  five  post-horses, 
A  monkey,  and  a  mastiff,  and  a  valet. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Poor  creatures  !  are  you  sure  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Yes,  of  the  monkey, 
And  the  valet,  and  the  cattle ;  but  as  yet 
We  know  not  if  his  excellency's  dead 
Or  no  ;  your  noblemen  are  hard  to  drown, 

|   As  it  is  fit  that  men  in  office  should  be  ; 

/But,  what  is  certain  is,  that  he  has  swallow'd 
Enough  of  the  Oder  to  have  burst  two  peasants ; 
And  now  a  Saxon  and  Hungarian  traveller, 
Who,  at  their  proper  peril,  snatch'd  him  from 
The  whirling  river,  have  sent  on  to  crave 
A  lodging,  or  a  grave,  according  as 

,  It  may  turn  out  with  the  live  or  dead  body. 

JOSEPHINE. 

And  where  will  you  receive  him  ?  here,  I  hope. 
If  we  can  be  of  service — say  the  word. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Here  ?  no ;  but  in  the  prince's  own  apartment, 
As  fits  a  noble  guest : — 'tis  damp,  no  doubt, 
Not  having  been  inhabited  these  twelve  years  ; 
But  then  he  comes  from  a  much  clamper  place, 
So  scarcely  will  catch  cold  in't,  if  he  be 
Still  liable  to  cold— and  if  not,  why 
He'll  be  worse  lodged  to-morrow  :  ne'ertheless, 
I  have  order'd  fire  and  all  appliances 
To  be  got  ready  for  the  worst— that  is, 
In  case  he  should  survive. 


so.i.  A  TRAGEDY.  21 

JOSEPHINE. 

Poor  gentleman ! 
I  hope  he  will  with  all  my  heart. 

WERNER. 

Intendant, 
Have  you  not  learn'd  his  name  ?    My  Josephine, 

[aside  to  his  wife. 
Retire,  I'll  sift  this  fool.  [exit  Josephine, 

IDENSTEIN. 

His  name  ?  oh  Lord  ! 
Who  knows  if  he  hath  now  a  name  or  no  j 
'Tis  time  enough  to  ask  it  when  he's  able 
To  give  an  answer,  or  if  not,  to  put 
His  heir's  upon  his  epitaph.     Methought 
Just  now  you  chid  me  for  demanding  names  ? 

WERNER. 

True,  true,  I  did  so ;  you  say  well  and  wisely. 
enter  Gabor. 

GAB  OR. 

If  I  intrude,  I  crave 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh,  no  intrusion  1 
This  is  the  palace ;  this  a  stranger  like 
Yourself;  I  pray  you  make  yourself  at  home : 
But  where's  his  excellency,  and  how  fares  he  ? 

GABOR. 

Wetly  and  wearily,  but  out  of  peril ; 

He  paused  to  change  his  garments  in  a  cottage, 

(Where  I  doff'd  mine  for  these,  and  came  on 

hither,) 
And  has  almost  recover'd  from  his  drenching. 
He  will  be  here  anon. 


22  WERNER,  Act  i. 

IDENSTEIN. 

What  ho,  there  !  bustle  ! 
Without  there,  Herman,  Weilburg,  Peter,  Con- 
rad ! 
[gives  directions  to  different  servants  who  enter. 
A  nobleman  sleeps  here  to-night — see  that 
All  is  in  order  in  the  damask  chamber — 
Keep  up  the  stove— I  will  myself  to  the  cellar — 
And  Madam  Idenstein  (my  consort,  stranger,) 
Shall  furnish  forth  the  bed  apparel ;  for 
To  say  the  truth,  they  are  marvellous  scant  of 

this 
Within  the  palace  precincts,  since  his  highness 
Left  it  some  dozen  years  ago.     And  then 
His  excellency  will  sup,  doubtless  ? 

GABOR. 

Faith ! 
I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  should  think  the  pillow 
Would  please  him  better  than  the  table  after 
His  soaking  in  your  river :  but  for  fear 
Your  viands  should  be  thrown  away,  I  mean 
To  sup  myself,  and  have  a  friend  without 
Who  will  do  honour  to  your  good  cheer  with 
A  traveller's  appetite. 

IDENSTEIN. 

But  are  you  sure 
His  excellency but  his  name,  what  is  it  ? 

GABOR. 

I  do  not  know. 

IDENSTEIN. 

And  yet  you  saved  his  life. 

GABOR. 

I  help'd  my  friend  to  do  so. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Well  that's  strange, 


sc.i.  A  TRAGEDY.  23 

To  save  a  man's  life  whom  you  do  not  know. 

GABOR. 

Not  so ;  for  there  are  some  I  know  so  well, 
I  scarce  should  give  myself  the  trouble. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Pray, 
Good  friend,  and  who  may  you  be  ? 

GABOR. 

By  my  family, 
Hungarian. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Which  is  call'd  ? 

GABOR. 

It  matters  little. 
idenstein.  (aside} 
.  I  think  that  all  the  world  are  grown  anonymous,  <* 
V  Since  no  one  cares  to  tell  me  what  he's  call'd  ?  ^ 
Pray,  has  his  excellency  a  large  suite  ? 

GABOR. 

Sufficient. 

IDENSTEIN. 

How  many  ? 

GABOR. 

I  did  not  count  them. 
We  came  up  by  mere  accident,  and  just 
In  time  to  drag  him  through  his  carriage  win- 
dow. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Well,  what  would  I  give  to  save  a  great  man  ! 
No  doubt  you'll  have  a  swinging  sum  as  re- 
compense. 

GABOR. 

Perhaps. 

IDENSTEIN.    r 

Now,  how  much  do  you  reckon  on  ? 


24  WERNER,  act  i. 

GABOR. 

I  have  not  yet  put  up  myself  to  sale : 
In  the  mean  time, (my  best  reward  would  be 
A  glass  of  your  Hockcheimer,  a  green  glass, 
Wreath'd  with  rich  grapes  and  Bacchanal  de- 
vices, 
H  4-O'erflowing  with  the  oldest  of  your  vintage;  <jf! 
For  which  I  promise  you,  in  case  you  e'er 
Run  hazard  of  being  drown'd,  (although  I  own 
It  seems,  of  all  deaths,  the  least  likely  for  you,) 
I'll  pull  you  out  for  nothing.  Quick,  my  friend, 
And  think,  for  every  bumper  I  shall  quaff, 
A  wave  the  less  may  roll  above  your  head. 

idenstein  (aside.) 
I  don't  much  like  this  fellow — close  and  dry 
He  seems,  two  things  which  suit  me  not ;  how- 
ever, 
Wine  he  shall  have ;  if  that  unlocks  him  not, 
I  shall  not  sleep  to-night  for  curiosity.     [Exit. 

gabor  (to  Werner.) 
This  master  of  the  ceremonies  is 
The  intendant  of  the  palace,  I  presume ; 
'Tis  a  fine  building,  but  decay'd. 

WERNER. 

The  apartment 
Design'd  for  him  you  rescued  will  be  found 
In  fitter  order  for  a  sickly  guest. 

GABOR. 

I  wonder  then  you  occupied  it  not, 
For  you  seem  delicate  in  health. 
WERNER  (quickly. J 

Sir! 

GABOR. 

Pray 
Excuse  me :  have  I  said  ought  to  offend  you  ? 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  25 

WERNER. 

Nothing :  but  we  are  strangers  to  each  other. 

GABOR. 

And  that's  the  reason  I  would  have  us  less  so : 
I  thought  our  bustling  guest  without  had  said 
You  were  a  chance  and  passing  guest,  the  coun- 
terpart 
Of  me  and  my  companions. 

WERNER. 

Very  true. 

GABOR. 

Then,  as  we  never  met  before,  and  never, 
It  may  be,  may  again  encounter,  why, 
I  thought  to  cheer  up  this  old  dungeon  here, 
(At  least  to  me,)  by  asking  you  to  share 
The  fare  of  my  companions  and  myself. 

WERNER. 

Pray,  pardon  me ;  my  health 

GABOR. 

Even  as  you  please, 
I  have  been  a  soldier,  and  perhaps  am  blunt  -, 
In  bearing.  \ 

WERNER. 

I  have  also  served,  and  can 
Requite  a  soldier's  greeting. 

GABOR. 

In  what  service  ? 
The  imperial  ? 
werner  (quickly j  and  then  interrufiting  himself.} 

I  commanded — no — I  mean 
I  served  ;  but  it  is  many  years  ago, 
When  first  Bohemia  raised  her  banner  'gainst 
The  Austrian. 

GABOR.     r 

Well,  that's  over  now,  and  peace 
C 


26  WERNER,  act  i. 

Has  turn'd  some  thousand  gallant  hearts  adrift 
To  live  as  they  best  may ;  and,  to  say  truth, 
Some  take  the  shortest. 

WERNER. 

What  is  that  ? 

GABOR. 

Whate'er 
They  lay  their  hands  on.    Ail  Silesia  and 
Lusatia's  woods  are  tenanted  by  bands 
Of  the  late  troops,  who  levy  on  the  country 
Their  maintenance  :  the  Chatelains  must  keep 
Their  castle  walls,  beyond  them  'tis  but  doubtful 
Travel  for  your  rich  count  or  full-blown  baron. 
My  comfort  is  that,  wander  where  I  may, 
I've  little  left  to  lose  now. 

WERNER. 

And  I — nothing. 

GABOR. 

That's  harder  still.  You  say  you  were  a  soldier. 

WERNER. 

I  was. 

GABOR. 

You  look  one  still.    All  soldiers  are 
Or  should  be  comrades,  even  though  enemies. 
Our  swords  when  drawn  must  cross,  our  en- 
gines aim 
(While  levell'd)  at  each  other's  hearts;  but  when 
A  truce,  a  peace,  or  what  you  will,  remits 
The  steel  into  its  scabbard,  and  lets  sleep 
The  spark  which  lights  the  matchlock,  we  are 

brethren. 
You  are  poor  and   sickly — I  am  not  rich  but 

healthy  ; 
I  want  for  nothing  which  I  cannot  want ; 
You  seem  devoid  of  this — wilt  share  it  ? 

[  Gabor  pulls  out  his  purse, 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  27 

WERNER. 

Who 
Told  you  I  was  a  beggar  ? 

GABOR. 

You  yourself 
^In  saying  you  were  a  soldier  during  peace-time,' 

werner  (looking  at  him  with  suspicion.) 
You  know  me  not  ? 

GABOR. 

I  know  no  man,  not  even 
Myself :  how  should  I  then  know  one  I  ne'er 
Beheld  till  half  an  hour  since  ? 

WERNER. 

Sir,  I  thank  you. 
Your  offer's  noble  were  it  to  a  friend, 
And  not  unkind  as  to  an  unknown  stranger, 
Though  scarcely  prudent ;  but  no  less  I  thank 

you. 
I  am  a  beggar  in  all  save  his  trade, ) 
And  when  I  beg  of  any  one  it  shall  be 
Of  him  who,  was  the  first  to  offer  what 
Few  can  obtain  by  asking. )  Pardon  me.  \_Exit. 

GABOR  (solus). 

A  goodly  fellow  by  his  looks,  ^though  worn, 
As  most  good  fellows  are/' by  pain  or  pleasure, 
Which  tear  life  out  of  us  before  our  time  : 

» I  scarce  know  which   most  quickly  ;  but  he 

seems 
To  have  seen  better  days,  as  who  has  not        c 

,  Who  has  seen  yesterday?— But  here  approaches 
Our  sage  intendant,  with  the  wine  ;  however, 
For  the  cup's  sake,  I'll  bear  the  cup-bearer. 


28  WERNER,  act  i. 

Enter  Idenstein. 

IDENSTEIN. 

'Tis  here  !  the  supernaculum  !  twenty  years 
Of  age,  if  'tis  a  day. 

GABOR. 

Which  epoch  makes 
(  Young  women  and  old  wine,  and  'tis  great  pity 
Of  two  such  excellent  things,  increase  of  years,) 
Which  still  improves  the  one,  should  spoil  the 

other. 
Fill  full— Here's  to  our  hostess— your  fair  wife. 

\Takes  the  glass. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Fair  ! — Well,  I  trust  your  taste  in  wine  is  equal 
To  that  you  show  for  beauty ;  but  I  pledge  you 
Nevertheless. 

GABOR. 

Is  not  the  lovely  woman 
I  met  in  the  adjacent  hall,  who,  with 
An  air,  and  port,  and  eye,  which  would  have 

better 
Beseem'd  this  palace  in  its  brightest  days, 
(Though  in  a  garb  adapted  to  its  present 
Abandonment),  return'd  my  salutation — 
Is  not  the  same  your  spouse  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

I  would  she  were  ! 
But  you're  mistaken — that's  the  stranger's  wife. 

GABOR. 

And  by  her  aspect  she  might  be  a  prince's : 
i  Though  time  hath  touch'd  her  too,  she  still  re- 
tains 
Much  beauty,  and  more  majesty.  J 

IDENSTEIN. 

And  that 


so.  r.  A  TRAGEDY.  29 

Is  more  than  I  can  say  for  Madame  Idenstein, 
At  least  in  beauty  :  as  for  majesty, 
She  has  some  of  its  properties  which  might 
Be  spared — but  never  mind  ! 

GABOR. 

I  don't.  But  who 
May  be  this  stranger  ?  He  too  hath  a  bearing 
Above  his  outward  fortunes. 

IDENSTEIN. 

There  I  differ. 
He's  poor  as  Job,  and  not  so  patient ;  but 
Who  he  may  be,  or  what,  or  aught  of  him, 
Except  his  name,  (and  that  I  only  learn'd 
To-night,)  I  know  not. 

GABOR. 

But  how  came  he  here  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

In  a  most  miserable  old  caleche, 

About  a  month  since,  and  immediately 

Fell  sick,  almost  to  death.  He  should  have  died. 

GABOR. 

Tender  and  true  !— but  why  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

(   Why,  what  is  life 
Without  a  living  I    He  has  not  a  stiver. 

GABOR. 

In  that  case,  I  much  wonder  that  a  person 
Of  your  apparent  prudence  should  admit 
Guests  so  forlorn  into  this  noble  mansion. 

IDENSTEIN. 

That's  true ;  but  pity,  as  you  know,  does  make 
One's  heart  commit  these  follies ;   and  besides, 
They  had  some  valuables  left  at  that  time, 
Which  paid  their  way  up  to  the  pi*esent  hour, 
And  so  I  thought  they  might  as  well  be  lodged 


c  2 


30  WERNER,  act  i. 

Here  as  at  the  small  tavern,  and  I  gave  them 
The  run  of  some  of  the  oldest  palace  rooms. 
They  served  to  air  them,  at  the  least  as  long 
As  long  as  they  could  pay  for  firewood. 

GABOR. 

Poor  souls ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

Ay, 

Exceeding  poor. 

GABOR. 

And  yet  unused  to  poverty, 
If  I  mistake  not.     Whither  were  they  going  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh  !  heaven  knows  where,  unless  to  heaven  it- 
self. 
Some  days  ago  that  look'd  the  likeliest  journey 
For  Werner. 

GABOR. 

Werner !  I  have  heard  the  name, 
But  it  may  be  a  feign'd  one. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Like  enough  ! 
But  hark  !  a  noise  of  wheels  and  voices,  and 
A  blaze  of  torches  from  without.     As  sure 
As  destiny,  his  excellency's  come. 
I  must  be  at  my  post :  will  you  not  join  me, 
To  help  him  from  his  carriage,  and  present 
Your  humble  duty  at  the  door  i 

GABOR. 

I  dragg'd  him 
From  out  that  carriage  when  he  would   have 

given 
His  barony  or  county  to  repel 
The  rushing  river  from  his  gurgling  throat. 
He  has  valets  now  enough  :    they  stood  aloof 

then, 


so.i.  A  TRAGEDY.  31 

Shaking  their  dripping  ears  upon  the  shore, 
All  roaring, "  Help  !"  but  offering  none  ;  and  as 
For  duty  (as  you  call  it)  I  did  mine  then, 
Now  do  yours.  Hence,  and  bow  and  cringe  him 
here ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

I  cringe  ! — but  I  shall  lose  the  opportunity — 
Plague  take  it!  he'll  be  here  and  I  not  there  ! 
\_Exit  Idenstein  hastily. 

Re-enter  Werner. 

Werner  [to  himself). 
I  heard  a  noise  of  wheels  and  voices.     How 
All  sounds  now  jar  me  ! 
(Perceiving  gabor.)  Still  here  !  Is  he  not 
A  spy  of  my  pursuer's  ?     His  frank  offer, 
So  suddenly,  and  to  a  stranger,  wore 
The  aspect  of  a  secret  enemy  ; 
For  friends  are  slow  at  such. 

GABOR. 

Sir,  you  seem  rapt, 
And  yet  the  time  is  not  akin  to  thought. 
These  old  walls  will  be  noisy  soon.  The  baron, 
Or  count,  (or  whatsoe'er  this  half-drown'd  noble 
May  be,)  for  whom  this  desolate  village,  and 
Its  lone  inhabitants,  show  more  respect 
Than  did  the  elements,  is  come. 
*  idenstein  (without). 

This  way 
This  way,  your  excellency :  have  a  care, 
The  staircase  is  a  little  gloomy,  and 
Somewhat  decay'd  ;  but  if  we  had  expected 
So  high  a  guest — pray  take  nfy  arm,  my  lord  ! 


32  WERNER,  act  i. 

Enter  Stralenheim,  Idenstein,  and  attendants, 
partly  his  own,  and  partly  retainers  of  the  do- 
main, of  which  Idenstein  is  Intendant. 

stralenheim. 
I'll  rest  me  here  a  moment. 

idenstein  (to  the  servants'). 

Ho  !  a  chair  ! 
Instantly,  knaves  !         [Stralenheim  sits  down. 
werner  (aside). 
'Tis  he ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

I'm  better  now. 
Who  are  these  strangers  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Please  you,  my  good  lord, 
One  says  he  is  no  stranger. 

Werner  (aloud  and  hastily). 

Who  says  that  ? 
\They  look  at  him  with  surprise. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Why,  no  one  spoke  of  you,  or  to  you  !  but 

Here's  one  his  excellency  may  be  pleased 

To  recognise.  [Pointing  to  Gabor. 

GABOR. 

I  seek  not  to  disturb 
His  noble  memory. 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  apprehend 
This  is  one  of  the  strangers  to  whose  aid 
I  owe  my  rescue.     Is  not  that  the  other  ? 

[Pointing  to  Werner. 
My  state,  when  I  was  succour'd  must  excuse 
My  uncertainty  to  whom  I  owe  so  much. 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  33 

IDENSTEIN. 

He  ! — no,  my  lord  !  he  rather  wants  for  rescue 
Than  can  afford  it.  'Tis  a  poor  sick  man, 
Travel-tired,  and  lately  risen  from  a  bed, 
From  whence  he  never  dream'd  to  rise. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Methought 
That  there  were  two. 

GABOR. 

There  were,  in  company  ; 
But,  in  the  service  render'd  to  your  lordship, 
I  needs  must  say  but  one,  and  he  is  absent. 
The  chief  part  of  whatever  aid  was  render'd, 
Was  his :  it  was  his  fortune  to  be  first. 
My  will  was  not  inferior,  but  his  strength 
And  youth  outstripp'd  me;    therefore  do  not 

waste 
Your  thanks  on  me.    I  was  but  a  glad  second 
Unto  a  nobler  principal. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Where  is  he  ? 

AN   ATTENDANT 

My  lord,  he  tarried  in  the  cottage,  where 
Your  excellency  rested  for  an  hour, 
And  said  he  would  be  here  to-morrow. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Till 
That  hour  arrives,  I  can  but  offer  thanks, 
And  then 

GABOR. 

I  seek  no  more,  and  scarce  deserve 
So  much.  My  comrade  may  speak  for  himself. 
stralenheim  {fixing  his  eyes  ufion  Werner,  then 

aside) 
It  cannot  be  !  and  vet  he  must  be  look'd  to.  • 


34  WERNER,  act  i. 

'Tis  twenty  years  since  I  beheld  him  with 
These  eyes ;  and,  though  my  agents  still  have 

kept 
Theirs  on  him,  policy  has  held  aloof 
My  own  from  his,  not  to  alarm  him  into 
Suspicion  of  my  plan.     Why  did  I  leave 
At  Hamburgh  those  who  would  have  made  as- 
surance 
If  this  be  he  or  no  ?  I  thought,  ere  now, 
To  have  been  lord  of  Siegendorf,  and  parted 
In  haste,  though  even  the  elements  appear 
To  fight  against  me,  and  this  sudden  flood 

May  keep  me  prisoner  here  till 

\JEIe  fiauses,  and  looks  at  Werner  ;  then  resumes. 

This  man  must 
Be  watch'd.     If  it  is  he,  he  is  so  changed, 
His  father,  rising  from  his  grave  again, 
Would  pass  him  by  unknown.  I  must  be  wary ; 
An  error  would  spoil  all. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Your  lordship  seems 
Pensive.     Will  it  not  please  you  to  pass  on  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

{ 'Tis  past  fatigue  which  gives  my  weigh 'd-down 
spirit 
An  outward  show  of  thought.    I  will  to  rest. 

IDENSTEIN. 

The  prince's  chamber  is  prepared,  with  all 
The  very  furniture  the  prince  used  when 
Last  here,  in  its  full  splendour. 

(aside)  Somewhat  tatter'd, 
And  devilish  damp,  but  fine  enough  by  torch- 
light; 
And  that's  enough  for  your  right  noble  blood 
Of  twenty  quarterings  upon  a  hatchment  j 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  S5 

So  let  theirbearer  sleep  'neath  something  like  one 
Now,  as  he  one  day  will  for  ever  lie. 

stralenheim  (rising,  and  turning  to  Gabor). 
Good  night,  good  people  !  Sir,  I  trust  to-morrow 
Will  find  me  apter  to  requite  your  service. 
In  the  mean  time,  I  crave  your  company 
A  moment  in  my  chamber. 

GABOR. 

I  attend  you 
stralenheim  (after  a  few  stefis,fiauses,  and  calls 

Werner) 
Friend  I 

WERNER. 

Sir! 

IDENSTEIN. 

Sir  !  Lord — oh,  Lord  !  Why  don't  you  say 
His  lordship,  or  his  excellency  ?  Pray, 
My  lord,  excuse  this  poor  man's  want  of  breed- 
ing: 
He  hath  not  been  accustom'd  to  admission 
To  such  a  presence. 

stralenheim  (to  Idenstein). 

Peace,  intendant ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh! 

I  am  dumb. 

stralenheim  (to  Werner.) 

Have  you  been  long  here  ? 

WERNER. 

Long? 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  sought 
An  answer,  not  an  echo. 

WERNER. 

You  may  seek 
Both  from  the  walls.     I  am  not  used  to  answer 


36  WERNER,  act  i. 

Those  whom  I  know  not. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Indeed  !  Ne'er  the  less, 
You  might  reply  with  courtesy,  to  what 
Is  ask'd  in  kindness. 

WERNER. 

When  I  know  it  such, 
I  will  requite — that  is,  refily — in  unison. 

STRALENHEIM. 

The  intendant  said,  you  had  been  detain'd  by 

sickness — 
If  I  could  aid  you — journeying  the  same  way  ? 

WERNER  (quickly). 
I  am  not  journeying  the  same  way  ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

How  know  ye 
That,  ere  you  know  my  route  ? 

WERNER. 

Because  there  is 
But  one  way  that  the  rich  and  poor  must  tread 
Together.  You  diverged  from  that  dread  path 
Some  hours  ago,  and  I  some  days  ;  henceforth 
Our  roads  must  lie  asunder,  though  they  tend 
All  to  one  home. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Your  language  is  above 


Your  station. 


■f  Your  garb. 


werner  (bitterly). 
Is  it? 

STRALENHEIM. 

Or,  at  least,  beyond  4 


WERNER. 

'Tis  well  that  it  is  not  beneath  it, 
As  sometimes  happens  to  the  better  clad. 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  37 

But,  in  a  word,  what  would  you  with  me  ? 
stralenheim  {star tied.) 

I? 

WERNER. 

Yes — you  !  You  know  me  not,  and  question  me, 
And  wonder  that  I  answer  not — not  knowing 
My  inquisitor.     Explain  what  you  would  have. 
And  then  I'll  satisfy  yourself,  or  me. 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  knew  not  that  you  had  reasons  for  reserve,  a 

WERNER. 

Many  have  such : — Have  you  none  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

None  which  can 
Interest  a  mere  stranger. 

WERNER. 

Then  forgive 
The  same  unknown  and  humble  stranger,  if 
He  wishes  to  remain  so  to  £he  man 
Who  can  have  nought  in  common  with  him. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Sir, 
I  will  not  balk-  your  humour,  though  untoward  : 
I  only  meant  you  service, — but,  good-night. 
Intendant,  show  the  way  !  {to  Gabor)    Sir,  you 

will  with  me  ? 
[exeunt  Stralenheim  and  attendants ;  Idenstein 
and  Gabor. 

WERNER  (solus). 

'Tis  he.   I  am  taken  in  the  toils.     Before 
I  quitted  Hamburgh,  Giulio,  his  late  steward, 
Inform'd  me,  that  he  had  obtain'd  an  order 
From  Brandenburgh's  elector,  for  the  arrest 
Of  Kruitzner  (such  the  name  I  then  bore,}  when 
I  came  upon  the  frontier  ;  the  free  citv 
D 


38  WERNER,  act  i. 

Alone  preserved  my  freedom— till  I  left 
Its  walls— fool  that  I  was  to  "quit  them  !  But 
I  deem'd  this  humble  garb,  and  route  obscure, 
Had  baffled  the.  slow  hounds  in  their  pursuit. 
What's  to  be  done  ?  He  knows  me  not  by  per- 
son; 
Nor  could  aught,  save  the  eye  of  apprehension, 
Have  recognised  him,  after  twenty  years, 
We  met  so  rarely  and  so  coldly  in 
Our  youth.  But  those  about  him  !  Now  I  can 
Divine  the  frankness  of  the  Hungarian,  who, 
No  doubt,  is  a  mere  tool  and  spy  of  Stralen- 

heim's, 
To  sound  and  to  secure  me.  Without  means  ! 
Sick,  poor-4-begirt  too  with  the  flooding  rivers, 
Impassable  even  to  the  wealthy,  with 
All  the  appliances  which  purchase  modes 
Of  overpowering  peril  with  men's  lives, — 
How  can  I  hope  !  An  hour  ago  methought 
My  state  beyond  despair ;  and  now,  'tis  such, 
The  past  seems  paradise.  |  Another  day, 
And  I'm  detected, — on  the  very  eve 
Of  honours,  rights,  and  my  inheritance, 
When  a  few  drops  of.  gold  might  save  me  still 
In  favouring  an  escape. 

Enter  Idenstein  and  Fritz,  in  conversation. 

,  FRITZ. 

Immediately. 

IDENSTEIN. 

I  tell  you,  'tis  impossible. 

FRITZ. 

It  must 
Be  tried,  however ;  and  if  one  express 
Fail,  you  must  send  on  others,  till  the  answer 


so.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  39 

Arrives  from  Frankfort,  from  the  commandant. 

IDENSTEIN. 

I  will  do  what  I  can. 

FRITZ. 

And  recollect 
To  spare  no  trouble ;  you  will  be  repaid 
Tenfold. 

IDENSTEIN. 

The  baron  is  retired  to  rest  ? 

FRITZ. 

He  hath  thrown  himself  into  an  easy  chair 
Beside  the  fire,  and  slumbers  ;  and  has  order'd 
He  may  not  be  disturb'd  until  eleven, 
When  he  will  take  himself  to  bed. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Before 
An  hour  is  past  I'll  do  my  best  to  serve  him. 

FRITZ. 

Remember !  [Exit  Fritz 

IDENSTEIN. 

The  devil  take  these  great  men  !  they 
Think  all  things  made  for  them.     Now  here 

must  I 
Rouse  up  some  half  a  dozen  shivering  vassals 
From  their  scant  pallets,  and,  at  peril  of 
Their  lives,  despatch  them  o'er  the  river  towards 
Frankfort.  Methinks  the  baron's  own  experience 
Some  hours  ago  might  teach  him  fellow-feeling : 
But  no, "  it  must"  and  there's  an  end.  How  now? 
Are  you  there,  Mynheer  Werner  ? 

WERNER. 

You  have  left 
Your  noble  guest  right  quickly. 


40  WERNER,  act  f. 

IDENSTEIN. 

i  Yes — he's  dozing, 

And  seems  to  like  that  none  should  sleep  besides. 
Here  is  a  packet  for  the  commandant 
Of  Frankfort,  at  all  risks  and  all  expenses^ 
But  I  must  not  lose  time :  Good  night. 

[exit  Idenstein. 

WERNER. 

"  To  Frankfort  !" 
So,  so,  it  thickens.   Ay,  "  the  commandant." 
This  tallies  well  with  all  the  prior  steps 
Of  this  cool  calculating  fiend,  who  walks 
Between  me  and  my  father's  house.    No  doubt 
He  writes  for  a  detachment  to  convey  me 
Into  some  secret  fortress.— Sooner  than 
This-i— 

[Werner  looks  around,  and  snatches  up,  a   knife 
lying  on  a  table  in  a  recess. 
Now  I  am  master  of  myself  at  least. 
Hark, — footsteps  !  How  do  I  know  that  Stra- 

lenheim 
Will  wait  for  even  the  show  of  that  authority 
Which  is  to  overshadow  usurpation  ? 
That  he  suspects,  me's  certain.     I'm  alone ; 
He  with  a  numerous  train.  ,  I  weak ;  he  strong 
In  gold,  in  numbers,  rank,  authority. 
I  nameless,  or  involving  in  my  name 
Destruction,  till  I  reach  my  own  domain  ; 
He  full  blown  with  his  titles,  which  impose 
Still  further  on  these  obscure  petty  burghers 
Than  they  could  do  elsewhere,     ^ark  !  nearer 

still! 
I'll'  to  the  secret  passage,  which  communicates 
With  the No ;  all  is  silent — 'twas  my  fancy. 


so.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  41 

Still  as  the  breathless  interval  between 
i  The  flash  and  thunder*: — I  must  hush  my  soul 
Amidst  its  perils.     Yet  I  will  retire, 
To  see  if  still  be  unexplored  the  passage 
I  wot  of:  it  will  serve  me  as  a  den 
Of  secrecy  for  some  hours,  at  the  worst. 

« 
f  Werner  draws  afiannel,  and  exit,  closing  it  after 
him. 

Enter  Gabor  and  Josephine. 

GABOR. 

Where  is  your  husband  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

Here,  I  thought :  I  left  him 
Not  long  since  in  his  chamber.  But  these  rooms 
Have  many  outlets,  and  he  may  be  gone 
To  accompany  the  intendant. 

GABOR. 

Baron  Stralenheim 
Put  many  questions  to  the  intendant  on 
The  subject  of  your  lord,  and,  to  be  plain, 
I  have  my  doubts  if  he  means  well. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Alas! 
What  can  there  be  in  common  with  the  proud 
And  wealthy  baron  and  the  unknown  Werner  ? 

GABOR. 

That  you  know  best. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Or,  if  it  were  so,  how 
Come  you  to  stir  yourself  in  his  behalf, 
Rather  than  that  of  him  whoseiife  you  saved  ?  ' 

GABOR. 

I  help'd  to  save  him,  as.  in  peril ;  but 
D  2 


42  WERNER,  act  x. 

1  did  not  pledge  myself  to  serve  him  in 
Oppression.  ;  I  know  well  these  nobles,  and 
Their  thousand  modes  of  trampling  on  the  poor. 
I  have  proved  them ;  and  my  spirit  boils  up 

when 
I  find  them  practising  against  the  weak  : 
This  is  my  only  motive. 

JOSEPHINE. 

It  would  be 
Not  easy  to  persuade  my  consort  of 
Your  good  intentions. 

GABOR. 

Is  he  so  suspicious  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

He  was  not  once;  but  time  and  troubles  have 
Made  him  what  you  beheld. 

GABOR. 

I'm  sorry  for  it. 

Suspicion  is  a  heavy  armour,  and 

With  its  own  weight  impedes  more  than  pro- 
tects. 

Good  night.  I  trust  to  meet  with  him  at  day- 
break. [Exit  Gabor. 

Re-enter  Idenstein  and  some  Peasants.     Jose-y 
fihine  retires  up  the  Hall. 

FIRST  PEASANT. 

But  if  I'm  drown'd  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Why,  you  will  be  well  paid  for't, 
And   have  risk'd  more  than  drowning  for  as 

much, 
I  doubt  not. 

SECOND  PEASANT. 

But  our  wives  and  families  ? 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  43 

IDENSTEIN. 

Cannot  be  worse  off  than  they  are,  and  may 
Be  better. 

THIRD  PEASANT. 

I  have  neither,  and  will  venture. 

ID  EN  STEIN. 

That's  right.     A  gallant  carle,  and  fit  to  be 
A  soldier.     I'll  promote  you  to  the  ranks 
In  the  prince's^body  guard — if  you  succeed  ; 
And  you  shall  have  besides  in  sparkling  coin 
Two  thalers. 

THIRD  PEASANT. 

No  more  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Si   Out  upon  your  avarice  I 
Can  that  low  vice  alloy  so  much  ambition  ?  j 
I  tell  thee,  fellow,  that  two  thalers  in 
Small  change  will  subdivide  into  a  treasure. 
Do  not  five  hundred  thousand  heroes  daily        * 
Risk  lives  and  souls  for  the  tithe  of  one  thaler  ? 
When  had  you  half  the  sum  ? 

THIRD  PEASANT. 

Never — but  ne'er 
The  less  I  must  have  three. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Have  you  forgot 
Whose  vassal  you  were  born,  knave  ? 

THIRD  PEASANT. 

No— the  prince's, 
And  not  the  stranger's. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Sirrah,  in  the  prince's 
Absence,  I'm  sovereign ;  and  the  baron  is 
My  intimate  connexion  : — "  Cousin  Idenstein, 
(Quoth  he)  you'll  order  out  a  dozen  villains.'* 


44  WERNER,  act  i. 

And  so,  you  villains  !  troop — march — march,  I 

say: 
And  if  a  single  dog's  ear  of  this  packet 
Be  sprinkled  by  the  Oder—look  to  it ! 
For  every  page  of  paper,  shall  a  hide 
Of  yours  be  stretch'd  as  parchment  on  a  drum, 

-»  Like  Ziska's  skin,  to  beat  alarm  to  all 
Refractory  vassals,  who  can  not  effect 
Impossibilities — Away,  ye  earth-worms  ! 

[Exit,  driving  them  out. 
Josephine  {coming  forward). 
I  fain  would  shun  these  scenes,  too  oft  repeated, 
Of  feudal  tyranny  o'er  petty  victims ; 
I  cannot  aid,  and  will  not  witness  such. 
Even  here,  in  this  remote,  unnamed,  dull  spot, 
The  dimmest  in  the  district's  map,  exist 
The  insolence  of  wealth  in  poverty 
O'er  something  poorer  still — the  pride  of  rank 

m    In  servitude,  o'er  something  still  more  servile  f\ 
And  vice  in  misery  affecting  still 
A  tatter'd  splendour.     What  a  state  of  being  ! 
{ In  Tuscany,  my  own  dear  sunny  land, 
Our  nobles  were  but  citizens  and  merchants, 
Like  Cosmo.     We  had  evils,  but  not  such  . 
As  these;  and  our  all-ripe  and  gushing  valleys 
Made  poverty  more  cheerful,  where  each  herb 
Was  in  itself  a  meal,  and  every  vine 
Rain'd,  as  it  were,  the  beverage,  which  makes 

glad 
The  heart  of  man  j  and  the  ne'er  unfelt  sun 
(But  rarely  clouded,  and  when  clouded,  leaving 
His  warmth  behind  in  memory  of  his  beams), 
Makes  the  worn  mantle,  and  the  thin  robe,  less 

A    Oppressive  than  an  emperor's  jewell'd  purple 
But,  here  !  .the  despots  of  the  north  appear 


SC.  I. 


A  TRAGEDY.  45 


To  imitate  the  ice-wind  of  their  clime, 
Searching  the  shivering  vassal  through  his  rags, 
To  wring  his  soul — as  the  bleak  elements 
His  form.j  And  'tis  to  be  amongst  these  sove- 
reigns 
My  husband  pants !  and  such  his  pride  of  birth— 
That  twenty  years  of  usage,  such  as  no 
Father,  born  in  a  humble  state,  could  nerve 
His  soul  to  persecute  a  son  withal, 

(Hath  changed  no  atom  of  his  early  nature  ; 

,f  But  I,  born  nobly  also,  from  my  father's 
Kindness  was  taught  a  different  lesson.-  Father! 
May  thy  long-tried,  and  now  rewarded  spirit, 
Look  down  on  us  and  our  so  long  desired 
Ulric  !  I  love  my  son,  as  thou  didst  me. 
What's  that  ?    Thou,  Werner !  can  it  be  ?  and 
thus. 

Enter  Werner  hastily,  with  the  knife  in  his 
hand,  by  the  secret  flannel,  which  he  closes 
•         hurriedly  after  him. 

werner  (not  at  first  recognizing  her). 

Discovered  !  then  I'll  stab (recognising  her), 

Ah !   Josephine, 
Why  art  thou  not  at  rest  ? . 

JOSEPHINE. 

What  rest  ?  My  God, 
What  doth  this  mean  ? 

werner  (showing  a  rouleau). 

Here's  gold — gold,  Josephine, 
Will  rescue  us  from  this  detested  dungeon. 

JOSEPHINE.     r 

And  how  obtain'd  ? — that  knife  !    •* 


1 


46  WERNER,  act  i. 

WERNER. 

'Tis  bloodless— yet. 
Away— we  must  to  our  chamber. 

JOSEPHINE. 

But  whence  com'st  thou  ? 

WERNER. 

Ask  not !  but  let  us  think  where  we  shall  go— 
This — this  will  make  us  way— 

{showing  the  gold) 
I'll  fit  them  now. 

JOSEPHINE. 

I  dare  not  think  thee  guilty  of  dishonour. 

WERNER. 

Dishonour ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

I  have  said  it. 

WERNER. 

Let  us  hence : 
'Tis  the  last  night,  I  trust,  that  we  need  pass 
here. 

JOSEPHINE. 

And  not  the  worst,  I  hope. 

WERNER. 

Hope  !  I  make  sure. 
But  let  us  to  our  chamber. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Yet  one  question — 
What  hast  thou  done  ? 

werner  (fiercely). 

Left  one  thing  undone,  which 
Had  made  all  well :  let  me  not  think  of  it  I 
Away  ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Alas,  that  I  should  doubt  of  thee  ! 

[Exeunt. 


so.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  4? 


ACT  II.— SCENE  L 

A  Hall  in  the  same  Palace. 
Enter  Idenstein,  and  Others. 

0 

IDENSTEIN. 

Fine  doings  !  goodly  doings  !  honest  doings ! 
A  baron  pillaged  in  a  prince's  palace  ! 
Where,  till  this  hour,  such  a  sin  ne'er  was  heard 
of. 

FRITZ. 

It  hardly  could,  unless  the  rats  despoil'd 
The  mice  of  a  few  shreds  of  tapestry. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh  !  that  I  ere  should  live  to  see  this  day  ! 
The  honour  of  our  city's  gone  for  ever. 

FRITZ. 

Well,  but  now  to  discover  the  delinquent : 
The  baron  is  determined  not  to  lose 
This  sum  without  a  search. 

IDENSTEIN. 

And  so  am  I. 

FRITZ. 

But  whom  do  you  suspect  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Suspect !  all  people 
Without— —within— — above— -below— -Heaven 
help  me ! 

FRITZ. 

Is  there  no  other  entrance  to  the  chamber  ? 


48  WERNER,  acti. 

IDENSTEIN. 

None  whatsoever. 

FRITZ. 

Are  you  sure  of  that  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Certain.     I  have  lived  and  served  here  since  my 

birth, 
And  if  there  were  such,  must  have  heard  of  such, 
Or  seen  it. 

•  FRITZ. 

Then  it  must  be  some  one  who 
Had  access  to  the  antechamber. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Doubtless. 

FRITZ.* 

The  man  call'd  Werner's  poor  ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

Poor  as  a  miser, 
But  lodged  so  far  off,  in  the  other  wing, 
By  which  there's  no  communication  with 
The  baron's  chamber,  that  it,  can't  be  he  : 
Besides,  I  bade  him  "  good  night"  in  the  hall, 
Almost  a  mile  off,  and  which  only  leads 
To  his  own  apartment,  about  the  same  time 
When  this  burglarious,  larcenous  felony 
Appears  to  have  been  committed. 

FRITZ. 

There's  another, 
The  stranger 

IDENSTEIN. 

The  Hungarian  ? 

FRITZ. 

He  who  help'd 
To  fish  the  baron  from  the  Oder. 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  49 

IDENSTEIN. 

Not 

Unlikely.     But,  hold — might  it  not  have  been 
One  of  the  suite  ? 

FRITZ. 

How  ?      We,  sir  ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

No — not  youj 
But  some  of  the  inferior  knaves.     You  say 
The  baron  was  asleep  in  the  great  chair— 
The  velvet  chair — in  his  embroider'd  night- 
gown ; 
His  toilet  spread  before  him,  and  upon  it 
A  cabinet  with  letters,  papers  ;  and 
Several  rouleaux  of  gold ;  of  which  one  only 
Has  disappear'd  : — the  door  unbolted,  with 
No  difficult  access  to  any. 

FRITZ. 

Good  Sir, 
Be  not  so  quick;  the  honour  of  the  corps, 
Which  forms,  the  baron's  household, 's  unim- 

peach'd 
From  steward  to  scullion,  save  in  the  fair  way 
Of  peculation  ;  such  as  in  accompts, 
Weights,  measures,  larder,  cellar,  buttery, 
Where  all  men  take  their  prey ;  as  also  in 
Postage  of  letters,  gathering  of  rents, 
Purveying  feasts,  and  understanding  with 
The  honest  trades  who  furnish  noble  masters  ; 
But  for  your  petty,  picking,  downright  thievery, 
We  scorn  it  as  we  do  board-wages  :  then 
Had  one  of  our  folks  done  it,  he  would  not 
Have  been  so  poor  a  spirit  as  to  hazard 
His  neck  for  one  rouleau,  but  have  swoop 'd  all; 
Also  the  cabinet,  if  portable. 
E 


50  WERNER,  act  ii, 

IDENSTEIN. 

There  is  some  sense  in  that 

FRITZ. 

No,  sir  ;  be  sure 
JTwas  none  of  our  corps  ;but  some  petty,  trivial 
Picker  and  stealer,  without  art  or  genius. 
The  only  question  is — Who  else  could  have 
Access,  save  the  Hungarian  and  yourself  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

You  don't  mean  me  ? 

FRITZ. 

No,  Sir ;  I  honour  more 
Your  talents 

IDENSTEIN. 

And  my  principles,  I  hope. 

FRITZ. 

Of  course.     But  to  the  point :  What's  to  be 
done  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Nothing — but  there's  a  good  deal  to  be  said. 
We'll  offer  a  reward ;  move  heaven  and  earth, 
And  the  police  (though  there's  none  nearer  than 
Frankfort) ;  post  notices  in  manuscript 
(For  we  've  no  printer)  ;  and  set  by  my  clerk 
To  read  them  (for  few  can,  save  he  and  I). 
We'll  send  out  villains  to  strip  beggars,  and 
Search  empty  pockets  ;  also,  to  arrest 
All  gipsies,  and  ill-clothed  and  sallow  people. 
Prisoners  we'll  have  at  least,  if  not  the  culprit ; 
And  for  the  baron's  gold — if  'tis  not  found, 
(At  least  he  shall  have  the  full  satisfaction 
Of  melting  twice  its  substance  in  the  raising 
The  ghost  of  this  rouleau.     Here's  alchymy 
For  your  lord's  losses  ! 


sc.i.  A  TRAGEDY.  51 


FRITZ. 

He  hath  found  a  better, 

IDENSTEIN. 


Where  ? 


FRITZ. 

In  a  most  immense  inheritance. 
The  late  Count  Siegendorf,  his  distant  kinsman, 
Is  dead  near  Prague,  in  his  castle,  and  my  lord 
Is  on  his  way  to  take  possession. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Was  there 
No  heir  ? 

FRITZ. 

Oh,  yes  ;  but  he  has  disappear'd 
Long  from  the  world's  eye,  and  perhaps  the 

world. 
A  prodigal  son,  beneath  his  father's  ban 
For  the  last  twenty  years  ;  for  whom  his  sire 
Refused  to  kill  the  fatted  calf ;  and,  therefore, 
If  living,  he  must  chew  the  husks  still.     But 
The  baron  would  find  means  to  silence  him, 
Were  he  to  re-appear  :  he's  politic, 
And  has  much  influence  with  a  certain  court. 

IDENSTEIN. 

He's  fortunate. 

FRITZ. 

'Tis  true,  there  is  a  grandson, 
Whom  the  late  count  reclaim'd  from  his  son's 

hands, 
And  educated  as  his  heir ;  but  then 
His  birth  is  doubtful. 

IDENSTEIN. 

How  so  ? 

FRITZ. 

His  sire  made 


52  WERNER,  act  ii. 

{  A  left  hand,  love,  imprudent  sort  of  marriage, 
With  an  Italian  exile's  dark-eyed  daughter : 
Noble,  they  say,  too  ;  but  no  match  for  such 
A  house  as  Siegendorf 's.     The  grandsire  ill 
Could  brook  the  alliance ;  and  could  ne'er  be 

brought 
To  see  the  parents,  though  he  took  the  son. 

IDEN  STEIN. 

If  he's  a  lad  of  mettle,  he  may  yet 

Dispute  your  claim,  and  weave  a  web  that  may 

Puzzle  your  baron  to  unravel. 

FRITZ. 

Why, 
For  mettle,  he  has  quite  enough  :  they  say, 
He  forms  a  happy  mixture  of  his  sire 
And  grandsire's  qualities,— impetuous  as 
The  former,  and  deep  as  the  latter  ;  but 
The  strangest  is,  that  he  too  disappear'd 
Some  months  ago. 

IDEN  STEIN. 

The  devil  he  did  ! 
fritz. 

Why,  yes : 
It  must  have  been  at  his  suggestion,  at 
An  hour  so  critical  as  was  the  eve 
Of  the  old  man's  death,  whose  heart  was  bro- 
ken by  it. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Was  there  no  cause  assign'd  ? 

FRITZ. 

Plenty,  no  doubt, 
And  none  perhaps  the  true  one.     Some  averr'd 
It  was  to  seek  his  parents  ;  some  because 
The  old  man  held  his  spirit  in  so  strictly 
(But  that  could  scarce  be,  for  he  doted  on  him) ; 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  53 

A  third  believed  he  wish'd  to  serve  in  war, 
But  peace  being  made  soon  after  his  departure, 
He  might  have  since  return'd,  were  that  the 

motive  ; 
A  fourth  set  charitably  have  surmised, 
As  there  was  something  strange  and  mystic  in 

him, 
That  in  the  wild  exuberance  of  his  nature, 
He  had  join'd  the  black  bands,  who  lay  waste 

Lusatia, 
The  mountains  of  Bohemia  and  Silesia, 
Since  the  last  years  of  war  had  dwindled  into 
A  kind  of  general  condottiero  system 
Of  bandit  warfare  ;  each  troop  with  its  chief, 
And  all  against  mankind. 

IDENSTEIN. 

That  cannot  be, 
A  young  heir,  bred  to  wealth  and  luxury, 
To  risk  his  life  and  honours  with  disbanded 
Soldiers  and  desperadoes  ! 

FRITZ. 

Heaven  best  knows  ! 
But  there  are  human  natures  so  allied 
Unto  the  savage  love  of  enterprize, 
That  they  will  seek  for  peril  as  a  pleasure. 
I've  heard  that  nothing  can  reclaim  your  Indian, 
Or  tame  the  tiger,  though  their  infancy 
Were  fed  on  milk  and  honey.     After  all, 
Your  Wallenstein,  your  Tilly  and  Gustavus, 
Your  Bannier,  and  your  Torstenson  and  Wei- 
mar, 
Were  but  the  same  thing  upon  a  grand  scale ; 
And  now  that  they  are  gone,  and  peace  pro- 
claimed, 
They  who  would  follow  the  same  pastime  must 
E  2 


54  WERNER.  act  ii. 

Pursue  it  on  their  own  account.     Here  comes 
The  baron,  and  the  Saxon  stranger,  who 
Was  his  chief  aid  in  yesterday's  escape, 
But  did  not  leave  the  cottage  by  the  Oder 
Until  this  morning. 

enter  stralenheim  and  ulric. 


STRALENHEIM. 

Since  you  have  refused 
All  compensation,  gentle  stranger,  save 
Inadequate  thanks,  you  almost  check  even  them, 
Making  me  feel  the  worthlessness  of  words, 
And  blush  at  my  own  barren  gratitude, 
They  seem  so  niggardly  compared  with  what 
Your  courteous  courage  did  in  my  behalf. 

ULRIC. 

I  pray  you  press  the  theme  no  further. 

STRALENHEIM. 

But 

Can  I  not  serve  you  ?     You  are  young,  and  of 
That  mould  which  throws  out  heroes  ;  fair  in 

favour ; 
Brave,  I  know,  by  my  living  now  to  say  so, 
And,  doubtlessly,  with  such  a  form  and  heart,. 
(Would  look  into  the  fiery  eyes  of  war, 
As  ardently  for  glory  as  you  dared 
An  obscure  death  to  save  an  unknown  stranger 
In  an  as  perilous,  but  opposite  element. 
You  are  made  for  the  service  :  I  have  served  ; 
Have  rank  by  birth  and  soldiership,  and  friends, 
Who  shall  be  yours.     'Tis  true,  this  pause  of 

peace 
Favours  such  views  at  present  scantily  ; 
But  'twill  not  last,  men's  spirits  are  too  stirring; 


K  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  •      55 

And,  after  thirty  years  of  conflict,  peace 

Is  but  a  petty  war,  as  the  times  show  us 

In  every  forest,  or  a  mere  arm'd  truce. 

War  will  reclaim  his  own ;  and,  in  the  mean 

time, 

You  might  obtain  a  post,  which  would  ensure 
A  higher  soon,  and,  by  my  influence,  fail  not 
To  rise.     I  speak  of  Brandenburg,  wherein 
I  stand  well  with  the  elector;  in  Bohemia, 
Like  you,  I  am  a  stranger,  and  we  are  now 
Upon  its  frontier. 

ULRIC. 

You  perceive  my  garb 
Is  Saxon,  and  of  course  my  service  due 
To  my  own  sovereign.     If  I  must  decline 
Your  offer,  'tis  with  the  same  feeling  which 
Induced  it. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Why,  this  is  mere  usury  ! 
I  owe  my  life  to  you,  and  you  refuse 
The  acquittance  of  the  interest  of  the  debt, 
To  heap  more  obligations  on  me,  till 
I  bow  beneath  them. 

ULRIC. 

You  shall  say  so  when 
I  claim  the  payment. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Well,  Sir,  since  you  will  not — < 
You  are  nobly  born  ? 

ULRIC. 

I've  heard  my  kinsmen  say  so. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Your  actions  show  it.     Might  I  ask  your  name  ? 

ULRIC. 

Ulric. 


56  WERNER,  act  ii. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Your  house's  ? 

ULRIC. 

When  I'm  worthy  of  it, 
I'll  answer  you. 

stralenheim  {aside) 

Most  probably  an  Austrian, 
Whom  these  unsettled  times  forbid  to  boast 
His  lineage  on  these  wild  and  dangerous  fron- 
tiers, 
Where  the  name  of  his  country  is  abhorr'd. 

\Aloud  to  fritz  and  idenstein. 
So,  Sirs  !  how  have  ye  sped  in  your  researches  I 

IDENSTEIN. 

Indifferently  well,  your  excellency. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Then 
I  am  to  deem  the  plunderer  is  caught  I 

IDENSTEIN. 

Humph  ! — not  exactly. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Or  at  least  suspected  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh  !  for  that  matter  very  much  suspected. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Who  may  he  be  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Why,  don't  you  know,  my  lord  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

How  should  I  ?  I  was  fast  asleep. 

IDENSTEIN. 

And  so 
Was  I,  and  that's  the  cause  I  know  no  more 
Than  does  your  excellency. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Dolt! 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  57 

IDENSTEIN. 

Why,  if 

Your  lordship,  being  robb'd,  don't  recognise 
The  rogue;  how  should  I,  not  being  robb'd, 

identify 
The  thief  among  so  many  ?  In  the  crowd, 
May  it  please  your  excellency,  your  thief  looks 
Exactly  like  the  rest,  or  rather  better  : 
£  'Tis  only  at  the  bar  and  in  the  dungeon 
^That  wise  men  know  your  felon  by  his  features  ; 
But  I'll  engage,  that  if  seen  there  but  once, 
Whether  he  be  found  criminal  or  no, 
His  face  shall  be  so. 

STRALENHEIM  (to  FRITz). 

Prithee,  Fritz,  inform  me 
What  hath  been  done  to  trace  the  fellow  ? 

FRITZ. 

Faith ! 
My  lord,  not  much  as  yet,  except  conjecture. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Besides  the  loss,  (which,  I  must  own,  affects  me 
Just  now  materially),  I  needs  would  find 
The  villain  out  of  public  motives  ;  for 
So  dexterous  a  spoiler,  who  could  creep 
Through  my  attendants,  and  so  many  peopled 
And  lighted  chambers  on  my  rest,  and  snatch 
The  gold  before  my  scarce  closed  eyes,  would 

soon 
Leave  bare  your  borough,  Sir  Intendant ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

True; 
If  there  were  aught  to  carry  off,  my  lord. 

ULRIC. 

What  is  all  this  ?  -    ...     . 


58  WERNER,  act  ii. 

STRALENHEIM. 

You  join'd  us  but  this  morning, 
And  have  not  heard  that  I  was  robb'd  last  night. 

ULRIC. 

Some  rumour  of  it  reach'd  me  as  I  pass'd 
The  outer  chambers  of  the  palace,  but 
I  know  no  further. 

STRALENHEIM. 

It  is  a  strange  business  : 
The  intendant  can  inform  you  of  the  facts. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Most  willingly.     You  see 

stralenheim  (impatiently). 

Defer  your  tale, 
Till  certain  of  the  hearer's  patience. 

IDENSTEIN. 

That 
Can  only  be  approved  by  proofs.     You  see 
stralenheim  {again  interrupting  him^  and 
addressing  ulric). 
In  short,  I  was  asleep  upon  a  chair, 
My  cabinet  before  me,  with  some  gold 
Upon  it,  (more  than  I  much  like  to  lose, 
Though  in  part  only)  :  some  ingenious  person 
Contrived  to  glide  through  all  my  own  atten- 
dants, 
Besides  those  of  the  place,  and  bore  away 
An  hundred  golden  ducats,  which  to  find 
I  would  be  fain,  and  there's  an  end  ;  perhaps 
You  (as  I  still  am  rather  faint),  would  add 
To  yesterday's  great  obligation,  this, 
Though  slighter,  yet  not  slight,  to  aid  these 

men 
(Who  seem  but  lukewarm)  in  recovering  it  ? 

ULRIC. 

Most  willingly,  and  without  loss  of  time— 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  59 

(  To  idenstein.)  Come  hither,  Mynheer  ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

But  so  much  haste  bodes 
Right  little  speed,  and 

ULRIC. 

Standing  motionless 
None  ;  so  let's  march,  we'll  talk  as  we  go  on. 

IDENSTEIN. 

But 

ULRIC. 

Show  the  spot,  and  then  I'll  answer  you. 

FRITZ. 

I  will,  Sir,  with  his  excellency's  leave. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Do  so,  and  take  yon  old  ass  with  you. 

FRITZ. 

Hence ! 

ULRIC. 

Come  on,  old  oracle,  expound  thy  riddle  ! 

\exit  with  idenstein  and  fritz. 

STRALENHEIM    (solus). 

A  stalwart,  active,  soldier-looking  stripling, 
lHandsome  as  Hercules  ere  his  first  labour, 
And  with  a  brow  of  thought  beyond  his  years 
When  in  repose,  till  his  eye  kindles  up        -f 
In  answering  yours.  I  wish  I  could  engage  him : 
I  have  need  of  some  such  spirits  near  me  now, 
For  this  inheritance  is  worth  a  struggle. 
And  though  I  am  not  the  man  to  yield  without 

one, 
Neither  are  they  who  now  rise  up  between  me 
And  my  desire.     The  boy,  they  say,  's  a  bold 

one ; 
But  he  hath  play'd  the  truant  in  some  hour 
Of  freakish  folly,  leaving  fortune  to 


60-  WERNER,  act  it. 

Champion  his  claims ;  that's  well.    The  father, 

whom 
For  years  I've  track'd,  as  does  the  blood-hound, 

never 
In  sight,  but  constantly  in  scent,  had  put  me 
To  fault,  but  here  I  have  him,  and  that's  better. 
It  must  be  he  I   All  circumstance  proclaims  it ; 
And  careless  voices,  knowing  not  the  cause 
Of  my  inquiries,  still  confirm  it — Yes  ! 
The  man,  his  bearing,  and  the  mystery 
Of  his  arrival,  and  the  time  ;  the  account,  too, 
The  intendant  gave  (for  I  have  not  beheld  her) 
Of  his  wife's  dignified  but  foreign  aspect ; 
Besides  the  antipathy  with  which  we  met, 
As  snakes  and  lions  shrink  back  from  each  other 
By  secret  instinct  that  both  must  be  foes 
Deadly,  without  being  natural  prey  to  either ; 
All — all — confirm  it  to  my  mind  ;  however, 
We'll  grapple,  ne'ertheless.     In  a  few  hours 
The  order  comes  from  Frankfort,  if  these  waters 
Rise  not  the  higher,  (and  the  weather  favours 
Their  quick  abatement),  and  I'll  have  him  safe 
Within  a  dungeon,  where  he  may  avouch 
His  real  estate  and  name ;  and  there's  no  harm 

done, 
Should  he  prove  other  than  I  deem.    This  rob- 
bery, 
(Save  for  the  actual  loss),  is  lucky  also : 
He's  poor,  and  that's  suspicious — he's  unknown, 
And  that's  defenceless,— -true,  we  have  no  proofs 
Of  guilt,. but  what  hath  he  of  innocence  ? 
Were  he  a  man  indifferent  to  my  prospects, 
In  other  bearings,  I  should  rather  lay 


sc.i.  A  TRAGEDY.  61 

The  inculpation  on  the  Hungarian,  who 
Hath  something  which  I  like  not ;  and  alone 
Of  all  around,  except  the  intendant,  and 
The  prince's  household  and  my  own,  had  ingress 
Familiar  to  the  chamber. 

Enter  Gabor. 

Friend,  how  fare  you  ? 

GABOR. 

As  those  who  fare  well  every  where,  when  they 
Have  supt  and  slumber'd,  no  great  matter  how — 
And  you,  my  lord  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

Better  in  rest  than  purse  : 
Mine  inn  is  like  to  cost  me  dear. 

GABOR. 

I  heard 
Of  your  late  loss ;  but  'tis  a  trifle  to 
One  of  your  order. 

STRALENHEIM. 

You  would  hardly  think  so. 
Were  the  loss  yours. 

GABOR. 

I  never  had  so  much 
(At  once)  in  my  whole  life,  and  therefore  am  not 
Fit  to  decide.     But  I  came  here  to  seek  you. 
Your  couriers  are  turn'd  back — I  have  outstript 

them, 
In  my  return. 

STRALENHEIM. 

You  !— -Why  ? 

GABOR. 

I  went  at  day-break, 
To  watch  for  the  abatement  of  the  river, 
F 


62  WERNER,  act  ii. 

As  being  anxious  to  resume  my  journey. 
Your  messengers  were  all  check'd  like  myself; 
And,  seeing  the  case  hopeless,  I  await 
The  current's  pleasure. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Would  the  dogs  were  in  it ! 
Why  did  they  not,  at  least,  attempt  the  passage  I 
I  order'd  this  at  all  risks. 

GABOR. 

Could  you  order 
The  Oder  to  divide,  as  Moses  did 
The  Red  Sea  (scarcely,  redder  than  the  flood 
Of  the  swoln  stream),  and  be  obey'd,  perhaps 
They  might  have  ventured. 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  must  see  to  it : 
The  knaves  !  the  slaves  ! — but  they  shall  smart 
for  this.  [Exit  Stralenhevn. 

gabor  (solus). 
There  goes  my  noble,  feudal,  self-will'd  baron  ! 
Epitome  of  what  brave  chivalry 
The  preux  chevaliers  of  the  good  old  times 
-  Have  left  us.     Yesterday  he  would  have  given 
His  lands  (if  he  hath  any),  and,  still  dearer, 
His  sixteen  quarterings,  for  as  much  fresh  air 
As  would  have  filled  a  bladder,  while  he  lay 
Gurgling  and  foaming  half  way  through  the 

window 
Of  his'o'erset  and  water-logg'd  conveyance, 
And  now  he  storms  at  half  a  dozen  wretches 
Because  they  love  their  lives  too  !    Yet  he's 

right : 
'Tis  strange  they  should,  when  such  as  he  may 
put  them 
^  To  hazard  at  his  pleasure.     Oh  !    thou  world  ! 
Thou  art  indeed  a  melancholy  jest !  [Exit  Gabor. 


so.  ii.  A  TRAGEDY.  63 


SCENE  II. 

The  Ap.artw.ent  of  Werner,  in  the  Palace, 
Enter  Josephine  and  Ulric. 

«  JOSEPHINE. 

Stand  back,  and  let  me  look  on  thee  again  ! 
My  Ulric  !— my  beloved  ! — can  it  be — 
After  twelve  years  ? 

ULRIC. 

My  dearest  mother  ! 

JOSEPHINE, 

Yes! 
My  dream  is  realized—how  beautiful- 
How  more  than  all  I  sigh'd  for  !  Heaven  receive 
A  mother's  thanks  !— a  mother's  tears  of  joy  ! 
This  is  indeed  thy  work  ! — At  such  an  hour,  too, 
He  comes  not  only  as  a  son  but  saviour. 

ULRIC. 

If  such  a  joy  await  me,  it  must  double 
What  I  now  feel,  and  lighten,  from  my  heart, 
A  part  of  the  long  debt  of  duty,  not 
Of  love,  (for  that  was  ne'er  withheld)— forgive 

me  ! 
This  long  delay  was  not  my  fault. 

JOSEPHINE. 

I  know  it, 
But  cannot  think  of  sorrow  now,  and  doubt 
If  I  e'er  felt  it,  'tis  so  dazzled  from 
My  memory,  by  this  oblivious  transport  '.— 
My  son ! 


64  WERNER,  act  n. 

Enter  Werner. 

WERNER. 

What  have  we  here,  more  strangers  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

No! 
Look  upon  him  !  What  do  you  see  ? 

WERNER. 

A  stripling, 

For  the  first  time 

ulric  {kneeling). 
For  twelve  long  years,  my  father  1 

WERNER. 

Oh,  God  ! 

.JOSEPHINE. 

He  faints ! 

WERNER. 

No — I  am  better  now— 
Ulric  !  {Embraces  him). 

ULRIC. 

My  father,  Siegendorf ! 
werner  {starting). 

Hush  !  boy— 
The  walls  may  hear  that  name ! 

ULRIC. 

What  then  ? 

WERNER. 

Why,  then — 
But  we  will  talk  of  that  anon.     Remember, 
I  must  be  known  here  but  as  Werner.     Come  ! 
Come  to  my  arms  again  !  Why,  thou  look'st  all 
I  should  have  been,  and  was  not.     Josephine ! 
Sure  'tis  no  father's  fondness  dazzles  me ; 
But  had  I  seen  that  form  amid  ten  thousand 


sc.  ii.  A  TRAGEDY.  65 

Youth  of  the  choicest,  my  heart  would  have 

chosen 
This  for  my  son  ! 

ULRIC. 

And  yet  you  knew  me  not ! 

WERNER. 

Alas  !  I  have  had  that  upon  my  soul 
Which  makes  me  look  on  all  men  with  an  eye 
That  only  knows  the  evil  at  first  glance. 

ULRIC. 

My  memory  served  me  far  more  fondly  :  I 
Have  not  forgotten  aught ;  and  ofttimes  in 
The  proud  and  princely  halls  of — (I'll  not  name 

them, 
As  you  say  that  'tis  perilous,)  but  i'  the  pomp 
Of  your  sire's  feudal  mansion,  I  look'd  back 
To  the  Bohemian  mountains  many  a  sunset, 
And  wept  to  see  another  day  go  down 
O'er  thee  and  me,  with  those  huge  hills  between 

us. 

ULRIC. 

They  shall  not  part  us  more. 

WERNER. 

I  know  not  that. 
Are  you  aware  my  father  is  no  more  ? 

ULRIC 

Oh  heavens  !  I  left  him  in  a  green  old  age, 
And  looking  like  the  oak,  worn,  but  still  steady 
Amidst  the  elements,  whilst  younger  trees 
Fell  fast  around  him.  'Twas  scarce  three  months 
since. 

WERNER. 

Why  did  you  leave  him? 

Josephine  (embracing  Ulric). 

Can  you  ask  that  question.? 
Is  he  not  here  ? 

f2 


66  WERNER,  act  ir. 

WERNER. 

True ;  he  hath  sought  his  parents, 
And  found  them  ;  but,  oh  !  how,  and  in  what 
state ! 

ULRIC. 

All  shall  be  better'd.     What  we  have  to  do 

Is  to  proceed,  and  to  assert  our  rights, 

Or  rather  yours ;  for  I  waive  all,  unless 

Your  father  has  disposed  in  such  a  sort 

Of  his  broad  lands  as  to  make  mine  the  foremost, 

So  that  I  must  prefer  my  claim  for  form  : 

But  I  trust  better,  and  that  all  is  yours. 

WERNER. 

Have  you  not  heard  of  Stralenheim  ? 

ULRIC 


His  life  but  yesterday:  he's  here. 

WERNER. 


I  saved 
You  saved 


The  serpent  who  will  sting  us  all ! 

ULRIC 

You  speak 
Riddles  :  what  is  this  Stralenheim  to  us  ? 

WERNER. 

Every  thing.  One  who  claims  our  fathers'  lands : 
Our  distant  kinsman,  and  our  nearest  foe. 

ULRIC 

I  never  heard  his  name  till  now.     The  count, 
Indeed,  spoke  sometimes  of  a  kinsman,  who, 
If  his  own  line  should  fail,  might  be  remotely 
Involved  in  the  succession  ;  but  his  titles 
Were  never  named  before  me — and  what  then  ? 
His  right  must  yield  to  ours. 

WERNER. 

Ay,  if  at  Prague ; 


sc.  ii.  A  TRAGEDY.  67 

But  here  he  is  all  powerful ;  and  has  spread 
Snares  for  thy  father,  which,  if  hitherto 
He  hath  escaped  them,  is  by  fortune,  not 
By  favour. 

ULRIC. 

Doth  he  personally  know  you  ? 

WERNER. 

No  ;  but  he  guesses  shrewdly  at  my  person, 
As  he  betray'd  last  night ;  and  I,  perhaps, 
But  owe  my  temporary  liberty 
To  his  uncertainty. 

ULRIC. 

I  think  you  wrong  him, 
(Excuse  me  for  the  phrase)  ;  but  Stralenheim 
Is  not  what  you  prejudge  him,  or,  if  so, 
He  owes  me  something  both  for  past  and  present: 
I  saved  his  life,  he  therefore  trusts  in  me  ; 
He  hath   been   plunder'd  too,  since   he  came 

hither ; 
Is  sick  ;  a  stranger  ;  and  as  such  not  now 
Able  to  trace  the  villain  who  hath  robb'd  him : 
I  have  pledged  myself  to  do  so ;  and  the  business 
Which  brought  me  here  was  chiefly  that :  but  I 
\  Have  found  in  searching  for  another's  dross, 
My  own  whole  treasure — you,  my  parents  !  i 
werner  (agitatedly). 

Who 
Taught  you  to  mouth  that  name  of  "  villain  ?" 

ULRIC. 

What 
More  noble  name  belongs  to  common  thieves  ? 

WERNER. 

Who  taught  you  thus  to  brand  an  unknown  being 
With  an  infernal  stigma  ? 


68  WERNER,  act  «2 

ULRIC. 

My  own  feelings 
Taught  me  to  name  a  ruffian  from  his  deeds. 

WERNER. 

Who   taught   you,  long-sought,  and  ill-found 

boy !  that 
It  would  be  safe  for  my  own  son  to  insult  me  ? 

ULRIC. 

I  named  a  villain.     What  is  there  in  common 
With  such  a  being  and  my  father  ? 

WERNER. 

Every  thing  I 
That  ruffian  is  thy  father ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Oh,  my  son ! 

Believe  him  not — and  yet ! {her  -voice  falters) 

ulric  {starts,  looks  earnestly  at  Werner,  and  then 
says  slowly). 

And  you  avow  it  ? 

WERNER. 

Ulric,  before  you  dare  despise  your  father, 
Learn  to  divine  and  judge  his  actions.     Young, 
Rash,  new  to  life,  and  rear'd  in  luxury's  lap, 

(  Is  it  for  you  to  measure  passion's  force, 
Or  misery's  temptation  ?     Wait — (not  long, 
It  cometh  like  the  Night,  and  quickly) — Wait !— . 
Wait  till,  like  me,  your  hopes  are  blighted — till 
Soitow  and  shame  are  handmaids  of  your  cabin ; 

i  Famine  and  poverty  your  guests  at  table ; 
Despair  your  bed-fellow— -then  rise,  but  not 
From  sleep,  and  judge  !     Should  that  day  e'er 
arrive— 

'  Should  you  see  then  the  serpent,  who  hath  coil'd 
Himself  around  all  that  is  dear  and  noble 


sc.  ir.  A  TRAGEDY.  69 

Of  you  and  yours,  lie  slumbering  in  your  path, 
With  but  his  folds  between  your  steps  and  hap- 
piness, 
When  he,  who  lives  but  to  tear  from  you  name, 
Lands,  life  itself,  lies  at  your  mercy,  with 
Chance  your  conductor ;  midnight  for  your  man- 
tle ; 
The  bare  knife  in  your  hand,  and  earth  asleep,' 
Even  to  your  deadliest  foe  ;  and  he  as  'twere 
Inviting  death,  by  looking  like  it,  while 
His  death  alone  can  save  you : — Thank  your 

God, 
If  then,  like  me,  content  with  petty  plunder, 
You  turn  aside 1  did  so. 

ULRI.C. 

But 

werner  (abrufitly). 

Hear  me  ! 
I  will  not  brook  a  human  voice — scarce  dare 
Listen  to  my  own  (if  that  be  human  still)— 
Hear  me  !  you  do  not  know  this  man — I  do. 
He's  mean,  deceitful,  avaricious.     You 
Deem  yourself  safe,  as  young  and  brave ;  but 

learn 
None  are  secure  from  desperation,  few 
From  subtilty.     My  worst  foe,  Stralenheim, 
Housed  in  a  prince's  palace,  couch'd  within 
A  prince's  chamber,  lay  below  my  knife  ! 
An  instant— a  mere  motion— the  least  impulse- 
Had  swept  him  and   all  fears  of   mine  from 

earth. 
He  was  within  my  power — my  knife  was  raised- 
Withdrawn— -and  I'm  in  in  his : — are  you  not  so  ? 
Who  tells  you  that  he  knows  you  not  ?     Who 
says 


76  WERNER,  act  h. 

He  hath  not  lured  you  here  to  end  you  ?  or 
To  plunge  you,  with  your  parents,  in  a  dungeon  ? 

[He  pauses. 

UfiRIC. 

Proceed — proceed  ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Me  he  hath  ever  known, 
And  hunted  through  each  change  of  time- 
name— fortune— • 
And  why  not  you  ?  Are  you  more  versed  in  men  ? 
|He  wound  snares  round  me ;  flung  along  my 

path 
Reptiles,   whom,  in  my  youth,  I  would  have 

spurn'd 
Even  from  my  presence  ;  but,  in  spurning  now, 
Fill  only  with  fresh  venom.     Will  you  be 

More  patient  ?  Ulric  ! Ulric  ! jthere  are 

crimes 
Made  venial  by  the  occasion,  and  temptations 
Which  nature  cannot  master  or  forbear.^ 
ulric  {looks  first  at  him,  and  then  at  Josephine}. 
My  mother ! 

WERNER. 

Ay  !  I  thought  so  :  you  have  now 
Only  one  parent.     I  have  lost  alike 
Father  and  son,  and  stand  alone. 

ULRIC. 

But  stay ! 
[  Werner  rushes  out  of  the  chamber. 
Josephine  (to  Ulric). 
Follow  him  not,  until  this  storm  of  passion 
Abates.     Think'st  thou  that  were  it  well  for  him 
I  had  not  follow'd  ? 

ULRIC. 

I  obey  you,  mother, 


sc.  ft.  A  TRAGEDY.  71 

Although  reluctantly.     My  first  act  shall  not 
Be  one  of  disobedience. 

JOSEPHINE. 

^  .    Oh  !  he  is  good  ! 
Condemn  him  not  from  his  own  mouth,  but  trust 
To  me,  who  have  borne  so  much  with  him,  and 
for  him, 
!  That  this  is  but  the  surface  of  his  soul, 
And  that  the  depth  is  rich  in  better  things. 

ULRIC. 

These  then  are  but  my  father's  principles  ? 
My  mother  thinks  not  with  him  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

*    .       Nor  doth  he 
'Think  as  he  speaks.    Alas  !  long  years  of  grief 
Have  made  him  sometimes  thus. 

ULRIC. 

Explain  to  me 
More  clearly,  then,  these  claims  of  Stralenheim, 
That,  when  I  see  the  subject  in  its  bearings, 
I  may  prepare  to  face  him,  or  at  least 
To  extricate  you  from  your  present  perils. 
I  pledge  myself  to  accomplish  this— but  would 
I  had  arrived  a  few  hours  sooner  ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Ay! 

Hadst  thou  but  done  so  ! 


72  WERNER,  act  n. 


Enter  Gabor  and  Idenstein,  with  Attendants. 

gabor  {to  Ulric). 

I  have  sought  you,  comrade. 
So  this  is  my  reward  ! 

ULRIC. 

What  do  you  mean  ? 

GABOR. 

'Sdeath !  have  I  lived  to  these  years,  and  for  this ! 
(7b  Idenstein)     But  for  your  age  and  folly,  I 
would 

IDENSTEIN. 

Help! 
Hands  off !  Touch  an  intendant ! 

GABOR. 

Do  not  think 
I'll  honour  you  so  much  as  save  your  throat 
From  the  Ravenstone,*  by  choking  you  myself. 

IDENSTEIN. 

I  thank  you  for  the  respite ;  but  there  are 
Those  who  have  greater  need  of  it  than  me. 

ULRIC 

Unriddle  this  vile  wrangling,  or 

GABOR. 

At  once,  then, 
.  The  baron  has  been  robb'd,  and  upon  me 
This  worthy  personage  has  deign'd  to  fix 
His  kind  suspicions— me !  whom  he  ne'er  saw 
Till  yester'  evening. 

*  The  Ravenstone,  "  Ravenstein,"  is  the  stone  gibbet 
of  Germany,  and  so  called  from  the  ravens  perching  on  it. 


sc.  ii.  A  TRAGEDY. 


73 


IDENSTEIN. 

Wouldst  thou  have  me  suspect 
My  own  acquaintances  ?  You  have  to  learn 
That  I  keep  better  company. 

GABOR. 

You  shall 
Keep  the  best  shortly,  and  the  last  for  all  men, 
The  worms !  you  hound  of  malice  ! 

[Gabor  seizes  on  him. 
ulric  (interfering.') 

a  ,     .,  ,,     ,  Na7>  no  violence: 

tie  s  old,  unarm 'd — be  temperate,  Gabor  ! 
gabor  (letting  go  idenstein.) 

True  : 
am  a  fool  to  lose  myself  because 
?ools  deem  me  knave :  it  is  their  homage. 

ULRIC  (to  IDENSTEIN.) 

How 
'  are  you  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Help! 

ULRIC. 

I  have  help'd  you. 

IDENSTEIN. 

,„  Kill  him  !  then 

11  say  so. 

GABOR. 

I  am  calm— live  on ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

That 's  more 
han  you  shall  do,  if  there  be  judge  or  judgment 
1  Germany.     The  baron  shall  decide  ! 

GABOR. 

oes  he  abet  you  in  your  accusation  ? 

G 


74  WERNER,  act  n. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Does  he  not  ? 

GABOR. 

Then  next  time  let  him  go  sink 
Ere  I  go  hang  for  snatching  him  from  drowning. 
But  here  he  comes  ! 

Enter  Stralenheim. 
gabor  (goes  ufi  to  him.) 

My  noble  lord,  I  'm  here  ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

Well,  Sir ! 

GABOR. 

Have  you  aught  with  me  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

What  should  I 
Have  with  you  ? 

GABOR. 

You  know  best,  if  yesterday's 
Flood  has  not  wash'd  away  your  memory  ; 
But  that's  a  trifle.     I  stand  here  accused, 
In  phrases  not  equivocal,  by  yon 
Intendant,  of  the  pillage  of  your  person, 
Or  chamber — is  the  charge  your  own,  or  his  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  accuse  no  man. 

GABOR. 

Then  you  acquit  me,  baron  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  know  not  whom  to  accuse,  or  to  acquit, 
Or  scarcely  to  suspect. 

GABOR. 

But  you  at  least 
Should  know  whom  not  to  suspect.  I  am  insulted— 
Oppress'd  here  by  these  menials,  and  I  look 
To  you  for  remedy — teach  them  their  duty  ! 


sc.  n.  A  TRAGEDY.  75 

To  look  for  thieves  at  home  were  part  of  it, 
If  duly  taught ;  but,  in  one  word,  if  I 
Have  an  accuser,  let  it  be  a  man 
Worthy  to  be  so  of  a  man  like  me. 
I  am  your  equal. 

STRALENHEIM. 

You! 

GABOR 

Ay,  Sir;  and,  for 
Aught  that  you  know,  superior  ;  but  proceed— 
I  do  not  ask  for  hints,  and  surmises, 
And  circumstance,  and  proofs ;  I  know  enough 
Of  what  I  have  done  for  you,  and  what  you  owe  me. 
To  have  at  least  waited  your  payment  rather 
Than  paid  myself,  had  I  been  eager  of 
Your  gold.     I  also  know  that  were  I  even 
The  villain  I  am  deem'd,  the  service  render'd 
So  recently  would  not  permit  you  to 
Pursue  me  to  the  death,  except  through  shame, 
Such  as  would  leave  your  scutcheon  but  a  blank. 
But  this  is  nothing ;  I  demand  of  you 
Justice  upon  your  unjust  servants,  and 
From  your  own  lips  a  disavowal  of 
All  sanction  of  their  insolence  :  thus  much 
You  owe  to  the  unknown,  who  asks  no  more, 
And  never  thought  to  have  ask'd  so  much. 

STRALENHEIM. 

This  tone 
May  be  of  innocence. 

GABOR. 

'Sdeath  !  who  dare  doubt  it, 
Except  such  villains  as  ne'er  had -it  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

You 
Are  hot,  Sir. 


76  WERNER,  act  nJ 

GABOR. 

•  Must  I  turn  an  icicle 
Before  the  breath  of  menials,  and  their  master  ? 

STKALENHEIM. 

Ulric  !  you  know  this  man  ;  I  found  him  in 
Your  company. 

GABOR. 

We  found  you  in  the  Oder : 
Would  we  had  left  you  there  ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  give  you  thanks,  Sir. 

GABOR. 

I've  earn'd  them;  but  might  have  earn'd  more 

from  others, 
Perchance,  if  I  had  left  you  to  your  fate. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Ulric  !  you  know  this  man  ? 

GABOR. 

No  more  than  you  do, 
If  he  avouches  not  my  honour. 

ULRIC. 

I 

Can  vouch  your  courage,  and,  as  far  as  my 
Own  brief  connexion  led  me,  honour. 

'   STRALENHEIM. 

Then 

I  'm  satisfied. 

gabor  (ironically.) 
Right  easily,  methinks. 
What  is  the  spell  in  his  asseveration 
More  than  in  mine  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  merely  said,  that  J 
Was  satisfied — not  that  you  were  absolved, 


ic.  ii.  A  TRAGEDY,  77 

GABOR. 

Again  !  Am  I  accused  or  no  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

Goto! 
foil  wax  too  insolent :  if  circumstance 
And  general  suspicion  be  against  you,  -> 
[s  the  fault  mine  ?  Is 't  not  enough  that  I 
Decline  all  question  of  your  guilt  or  innocence  ? 

GABOR. 

Vly  lord,  my  lord,  this  is  mere  cozenage, 

\.  vile  equivocation  :/you  well  know 

four  doubts  are  certainties  to  all  around  you— 

four  looks  a  voice— your  frowns  a  sentence)  you 

\.re  practising  your  power  on  me — because* 

fou  have  it ;  but  beware,  you  know  not  whom 

fou  strive  to  tread  on.v 

STRALENHEIM. 

Threat'st  thou  ? 

GABOR. 

Not  so  much 
ks  you  accuse.     You  hint  the  basest  injury, 
l.nd  I  retort  it  with  an  open  warning. 

STRALENHEIM. 

ls  you  have  said,  'tis  true  I  owe  you  something, 
'or  which  you  seem  disposed  to  pay  yourself. 

GABOR. 

lot  with  your  gold. 

STRALENHEIM. 

With  bootless  insolence. 
\_To  his  attendants  and  Idenstein, 
ou  need  not  further  to  molest  this  man, 
ait  let  him  go  his  way.     Ulric,  good  morrow  ! 
Exit  Stralenheim,  Idenstein,  and  attendants* 
gabor  (following.') 

'11  after  him,  and . 

G  2 


78   •  WERNER,  aotii.: 

ulric  {stofifiing  him.') 
Not  a  step. 

GABOK. 

Who  shall 
Oppose  me  ? 

ULRIC. 

Your  own  reason,  with  a  moment's 
Thought. 

GABOR. 

Must  I  bear  this  ? 

ULRIC. 

Pshaw !  we  all  must  bear 
The  arrogance  of  something  higher  than 
Ourselves — >the  highest  cannot  temper  Satan, 
Nor  the  lowest  his  vicegerents  upon  earth. 
I've  seen  you  brave  the  elements,  and  bear 
Things  which  had  made  this  silk-worm  cast  his 

skin — 
And   shrink   you   from  a  few  sharp   sneers  and 

words  ? 

GABOR. 

Must  I  bear  to  be  deem'd  a  thief?    If  'twere 
A  bandit  of  the  woods,  I  could  have  borne  it — 
There's  something  daring  in  it-«-but  to  steal 
The  monies  of  a  slumbering  man  !•*- 

ULRIC. 

It  seems,  then^ 
You  are  not  guilty  ? 

GABOR. 

Do  I  hear  aright  ? 
You  too ! 

ULRIC. 

I  merely  ask'd  a  simple  question. 

GABOR. 

If  the  judge  ask'd  me— I  would  answer  "  No" — 


so.  ii.  A  TRAGEDY.  79 

To  you  I  answer  thus.     (He  draws.) 
ulric  (drawing.) 

With  all  my  heart ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Without  there!    Ho!    help!    help !— Oh,   God! 
here's  murder  !    \_Exit  Josephine,  shrieking. 

Gabor  and  Ulric  fight.  Gabor  is  disarmed 
just  as  Stralenheim,  Josephine,  Idenstein, 
tfc.  re-enter. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Oh  !  glorious  Heaven  !  He  's  safe ! 

STRALENHEIM    (to    JOSEPHINE.) 

Who  's  safe  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

My- 


ulric  (interrupting  her  with  a  stem   look,  and 
turning  afterwards  to  stralenheim.) 

Both! 
Here  's  no  great  harm  done. 

STRALENHEIM. 

What  hath  caused  all  this  ? 

ULRIC. 

You,  Baron,  I  believe  ;  but  as  the  effect 
Is  harmless,  let  it  not  disturb  you. — Gabor ! 
There  is  your  sword  ;  and  when  you  bare  it  next, 
Let  it  not  be  against  your  friends. 

£Ulric  pronounces  the  last  words  slowly  and 
emphatically  in  a  low  voice  to  Gabor. 

GABOR. 

I  thank  you 
Less  for  my  life  than  for  your  counsel. 

STRALENHEIM. 

These 
Brawls  must  end  here. 


80  WERNER,  act  ii. 

gabor  (taking  his  sword.') 
They  shall.    You  have  wrong'd  me,  Ulric, 
More  with  your  unkind  thoughts  than  sword;  I 

would 
The  last  were  in  my  bosom  rather  than 
The  first  in  yours.   I  could  have  borne  yon  noble's 
Absurd  insinuations-r-Ignorance 
And  dull  suspicion  are  a  part  of  his 
Intail  will  last  him  longer  than  his  lands.— 
But  I  may  fit  him  yet : — you  have  vanquish'd  me. 
I  was  the  fool  of  passion  to  conceive 
That  I  could  cope  with  you  whom  I  had  seen 
Already  proved  by  greater  perils  than 
Rest  in  this  arm.    We  may  meet  by  and  by, 
However — but  in  friendship.  [Exit  Gabor. 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  will  brook 
No  more  !  This  outrage  following  up  his  insults, 
Perhaps  his  guilt,  has  cancell'd  all  the  little 
I  owed  him  heretofore  for  the  so  vaunted 
Aid  which  he  added  to  your  abler  succour. 
Ulric,  you  are  not  hurt  ? — 

ULRIO. 

Not  even  by  a  scratch. 

STRALENHEIM    {to    IDENSTEIN.) 

Intendant !  take  your  measures  to  secure 
Yon  fellow  :  I  revoke  my  former  lenity. 
He  shall  be  sent  to  Frankfort  with  an  escort 
The  instant  that  the  waters  have  abated. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Secure  him  !  he  hath  got  his  sword  again— *■ 
And  seems  to  know  the  use  on't  j  'tis  his  trade, 
Belike :— I'm  a  civilian. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Fool !  are  not 


sc.  ii.  A  TRAGEDY.  81 

Yon  score  of  vassals  dogging  at  your  heels 
Enough  to  seize  a  dozen  such  ?  Hence  !  after  him ! 

ULRIC. 

Baron,  I  do  beseech  you  ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  must  be 
Obey'd.     No  words  ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

Well,  if  it  must  be  so — 
March,  vassals  !  I'm  your  leader — and  will  bring 
The  rear  up  :  a  wise  general  never  should 
Expose  his  precious  life — on  which  all  rests. 
I  like  that  article  of  war. 

\_Exit  Idenstein  and  attendants, 

STRALENHEIM. 

Come  hither, 
Ulric :— what  does  that  woman  here  ?    Oh !  now 
I  recognise  her,  'tis  the  stranger's  wife 
Whom  they  name  "  Werner." 

ULRIC. 

'Tis  his  name. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Indeed ! 
[s  not  your  husband  visible,  fair  dame  ?— 

JOSEPHINE. 

Who  seeks  him  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

No  one — for  the  present :  but 
t  fain  would  parley,  Ulric,  with  yourself 
Alone. 

ULRIC. 

I  will  retire  with  you. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Not  so. 
You  are  the  latest  stranger,  and  command 


82  WERNER,  act  h.) 

All  places  here. 

{Aside  to  Ulric   as  she  goes  out.)     Oh!   Ulric,' 

have  a  care — 
Remember  what  depends  on  a  rash  word  ! 
ulric  {to  Josephine.) 

Fear  not ! — 
[Exit  Josephine. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Ulric,  I  think  that  I  may  trust  you  ? 

You  saved  my  life — and  acts  like  these  beget 

Unbounded  confidence. 

ULRIC. 

Say  on. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Mysterious 
And  long  engender'd  circumstances  (not 
To  be  now  fully  enter'd  on)  have  made 
This  man  obnoxious — perhaps  fatal  to  me. 

ULRIC. 

Who  ?  Gabor,  the  Hungarian  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

No — this  «  Werner" — 
With  the  false  name  and  habit. 

ULRIC. 

How  can  this  be  ? 
He  is  the  poorest  of  the  poor— -and  yellow 
Sickness  sits  cavern'd  in  his  hollow  eye :  J 
The  man  is  helpless. 

STRALENHEIM. 

He  is — 'tis  no  matter- 
But  if  he  be  the  man  I  deem  (and  that 
He  is  so,  all  around  us  here — and  much 
That  is  not  here — confirm  my  apprehension,) 
He  must  be  made  secure,  ere  twelve  hours  further. 


sc.  if.  A  TRAGEDY.  83 

ULRIC. 

And  what  have  I  to  do  with  this  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  have  sent 
To  Frankfort,  to  the  governor,  my  friend — 
(I  have  the  authority  to  do  so  by 
An  order  of  the  house  of  Brandenburgh) 
For  a  fit  escort — but  this  cursed  flood 
Bars  all  access,  and  may  do  for  some  hours, 

ULRIC. 

It  is  abating. 

STRALENHEIM. 

That  is  well. 

ULRIC 

But  how 

Am  I  concern'd  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

As  one  who  did  so  much 
For  me,  you  cannot  be  indifferent  to 
That  which  is  of  more  import  to  me  than 
The  life  you  rescued. — Keep  your  eye  on  him  ! 
The  man  avoids  me,  knows  that  I  now  know  him. — > 
Watch  him ! — as  you  would  watch  the  wild  boar 

when 
(He  makes  against  you  in  the  hunter's  gap- 
Like  him,  he  must  be  spear'd. 

ULRIC. 

Why  so  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

He  stands 
Between  me  and  a  brave  inheritance  ! 
Oh  !  could  you  see  it !     But  you^shall. 

ULRIO, 

I  hope  s&. 


•»»J 


84  WERNER,  act 

STRALENHEIM. 

It  is  the  richest  of  the  rich  Bohemia, 
Unscathed  by  scorching  war.     It  lies  so  near 
The  strongest  city,  Prague,  that  fire  and  sword 
Have  skimm'd  it  lightly  :  *so  that  now,  besides 
Its  own  exuberance,  it  bears  double  value 
Confronted  with  whole  realms  afar  and  near 
Made  deserts. 

ULRIC. 

You  describe  it  faithfully. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Ay — could  you  see  it,  you  would  say  so— but, 
As  I  have  said,  you  shall. 

ULRIC. 

I  accept  the  omen. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Then  claim  a  recompense  from  it  and  me, 
Such  as  both  may  make  worthy  your  acceptance 
And  services  to  me  and  mine  for  ever. 

ULRIC. 

And  this  sole,  sick,  and  miserable  wretch— 
This  way-worn  stranger — stands  between  you  and 
This  Paradise  ? — (As  Adam  did  between 
The  devil  and  his.) — \_Aside.~\ 

STRALENHEIM.  * 

He  doth. 

ULRIC. 

Hath  he  no  right  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

Right !  none.     A  disinherited  prodigal, 
Who  for  these  twenty  years  disgraced  his  lineage 
In  all  his  acts — but  chiefly  by  his  marriage, 
And  living  amidst  commerce-fetching  burghers, 
And  dabbling  merchants,  in  a  mart  of  Jews. 


sc.  ii.  A  TRAGEDY.  85 

ULRIC. 

He  has  a  wife,  then  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

You'd  be  sorry  to 
Call  such  your  mother.   You  have  seen  the  woman 
He  calls  his  wife. 

ULRIC. 

Is  she  not  so  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

No  more 

Than  he's  your  father  :-4an  Italian  girl, 
The  daughter  of  a  banish'd  man,  who  lives 
On  love  and  poverty  with  this  same  Wernef.j 

ULRIC. 

They  are  childless,  then  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

There  is  or  was  a  bastard, 
Whom  the  old  man— the  grandsire  (as  old  Age 
s  ever  doting), took  to  warm  his  bosom, 
\s  it  went  chilly  downward  to  the  grave  : 
3ut  the  Imp  stands  not  in  my  path— he  has  fled, 
tfo  one  knows  whither ;  and  if  he  had  not, 
lis  claims  alone  were  too  contemptible 
To  stand Why  do  you  smile  ? 

ULRIC. 

At  your  vain  fears  : 
^  poor  man  almost  in  his  grasp — a  child 
3f  doubtful  birth — can  startle  a  grandee  ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

Mi's  to  be  fear'd,  where  all  is  to  be  gain'd.  > 

ULRIC. 

[rue ;  and  aught  done  to  save  or  to  obtain  it. 

S'iRALENHEIM. 

Tou  have  harp'd  the  very  string  next  to  my  heart.' 
may  depend  upon  you  ? 


86  WERNER,  act  I 

ULRIC. 

'Twere  too  late 
To  doubt  it. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Let  no  foolish  pity  shake 
Your  bosom  (for  the  appearance  of  the  man 
Is  pitiful) — he  is  a  wretch,  as  likely 
To  have  robb'd  me  as  the  fellow  more  suspected, 
Except  that  circumstance  is  less  against  him ; 
He  being  lodged  far  off,  and  in  a  chamber 
Without  approach  to  mine ;  and,  to  say  truth, 
I  think  too  well  of  blood  allied  to  mine, 
.  To  deem  he  would  descend  to  such  an  act ; 
Besides,  he  was  a  soldier,  and  a  brave  one 
Once — though  too  rash. 

ULRIC. 

And  they,  my  lord,  we  know 
By  our  experience,  never  plunder  till 
They  knock  the  brains  out  first — which  makes 

them  heirs, 
Not  thieves.    The  dead,  who  feel  nought,  can  lost 

nothing, 

Nor  e'er  be  robb'd :  their  spoils  are  a  bequest — 
-No  more. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Go  to  !  you  are  a  wag.     But  say 
I  may  be  sure  you'll  keep  an  eye  on  this  man, 
And  let  me  know  his  slightest  movement  towards 
Concealment  or  escape  ? 

ULRIC. 

You  may  be  sure 
You  yourself  could  not  watch  him  more  than  I 
Will  be  his  sentinel. 

STRALENHEIM. 

By  this,  you  make  me 


sc.  ii.  A  TRAGEDY.  87 

Yours,  and  for  ever. 

ULRIC. 

Such  is  my  intention. 

\_Exeunt. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  I. 

A  Hall  in  the  same  Palace,  from  whence  the  secret 
Passage  leads. 

Enter  Werner  and  Gabor. 

GABOR. 

Sir,  I  have  told  my  tale :  if  it  so  please  you 
To  give  me  refuge  for  a  few  hours,  well— 
[f  not — I'll  try  my  fortune  elsewhere. 

WERNER. 

How 

Can  I,  so  wretched,  give  to  Misery 

\  shelter  ? — wanting  such  myself  as  much 

A.s  e'er  the  hunted  deer  a  covert          j 

GABOR. 

Or 

The  wounded  lion  his  cool  cave.  Methinks 
iTou  rather  look  like  one  would  turn  at  bay, 
\nd  rip  the  hunter's  entrails. 

WERNER. 

Ah? 

GABOR. 

I  care  not 
[f  it  be  so,  being  much  disposed  to  do 
The  same  myself;  but  will  you  shelter  me? 
I  am  oppress'd  like  you— and  poor  like  you — 
Disgraced 


88  WERNER,  act  in. 

werner  (abrufitly.) 
Who  told  you  that  I  was  disgraced! 

GABOR. 

No  one;  nor  did  I  say  you  were  so :  with 
Your  poverty  my  likeness  ended ;  but 
I  said  I  was  so — and  would  add,  with  truth. 
As  undeservedly  as  you. 

WERNER. 

Again ! 
As  J? 

GABOR. 

Or  any  other  honest  man. 
What  the  devil  would  you  have?     You  don't  be- 
lieve me 
Guilty  of  this  base  theft  ? 

WERNER. 

No,  no — I  cannot. 

GABOR. 

Why,  that's  my  heart  of  honour !  yon  young  gal- 
lant— 
Your  miserly  intendant  and  dense  noble — 
All — all  suspected  me ;  and  why  ?  because 
I  am  the  worst-clothed,  and  least  named  amongsl 

them, 
Although,  were  Momus'  lattice  in  our  breasts, 
My  soul  might  brook  to  open  it  more  widely 
Than  theirs ;  but  thus  it  is — you  poor  and  help 

less — 
Both  still  more  than  myself. 

WERNER. 

How  know  you  that 

GABOR. 

You're  right ;  I  ask  for  shelter  at  the  hand 
Which  I  call  helpless  :  if  you  now  deny  it, 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  89 

I  were  well  paid.     But  you,  who  seem  to  have1 

proved 
The  wholesome  bitterness  of  life,  know  well, 
By  sympathy,  that  all  the  outspread  gold 
Of  the  New  World,  the  Spaniard  boasts  about, 
Could  never  tempt  the  man  who  knows  its  worth, 
Weigh'd  at  its  proper  value  in  the  balance, 
Save  in  such  guise  (and  there  I  grant  its  power, 
Because  I  feel  it)  as  may  leave  no  night -mare 
Upon  his  heart  o'nights.  *. 

WERNER. 

What  do  you  mean  ? 

GAB  OR. 

Just  what  I  say  :  I  thought  my  speech  was  plain: 
You  are  no  thief — nor  I — and,  as  true  men, 
Should  aid  each  other. 

WERNER. 

It  is  a  damned  world,  sir. 

GABOR. 

So  is  the  nearest  of  the  two  next,  as 

The  priests  say  (and  no  doubt  they  should  know 

best,) 
Therefore  I'll  stick  by  this — as  being  loth 
To  suffer  martyrdom,  at  least  with  such 
An  epitaph  as  larceny  upon  my  tomb. 
It  is  but  a  night's  lodging  which  I  crave ; 
To-morrow  I  will  try  the  waters,  as 
The  Dove  did,  trusting  that  they  have  abated. 

WERNER. 

Abated  ?    Is  there  hope  of  that  ? 

GABOR. 

There  was 
At  noontide. 

WERNER. 

Then  we  may  be  safe, 

H  2 


90  WERNER,  act  nr. 

GABOR. 

Are  you 
In  peril  ? 

WERNER. 

Poverty  is  ever  so. 

GABOR. 

That  I  know  by  long  practice.    Will  you  not 
Promise  to  make  mine  less  ? 

WERNER. 

Your  poverty  ? 

GABOR. 

No — you  don't  look  a  leech  for  that  disorder; 
I  meant  my  peril  only ;  you've  a  roof, 
And  I  have  none ;  I  merely  seek  a  covert. 

WERNER. 

Rightly ;  for  how  should  such  a  wretch  as  I 
Have  gold  ? 

GABOR. 

Scarce  honestly,  to  say  the  truth  on't, 
Although  I  almost  wish  you  had  the  baron's. 

WERNER. 

Dare  you  insinuate  ? 

GABOR. 

What  ? 

WERNER. 

Are  you  aware 
To  whom  you  speak  ? 

GABOR. 

No ;  and  I  am  not  used 
Greatly  to  care.     {A  noise  heard  without.}     But 
hark  !  they  come  ! 

WERNER. 

Who  come  ? 

GABOB. 

The  Intendant  and  his  man-hounds  after  me : 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  91 

I  'd  face  them— but  it  were  in  vain  to  expect 
Justice  at  hands  like  theirs.     Where  shall  I  go  ? 
But  show  me  any  place.     I  do  assure  you, 
If  there  be  faith  in  man,  I  am  most  guiltless : 
Think  if  it  were  your  own  case  ! 
werner  (aside.) 

|  Oh,  just  God ! 
Thy  hell  is  not  hereafter !    Am  I  dust  still  ? 

GABOR. 

I  see  you  're  moved ;  and  it  shows  well  in  you : 
I  may  live  to  requite  it. 

WERNER. 

Are  you  not 
A  spy  of  Stralenheim's  ? 

GABOR. 

Not  I !  and  if 
I  were,  what  is  there  to  espy  in  you  ? 
Although  I  recollect  his  frequent  question 
About  you  and  your  spouse,  might  lead  to  some 
Suspicion;  but  you  best  know — what — and  why: 
I  am  his  deadliest  foe. 

WERNER. 

You? 

GABOR. 

After  such 
A  treatment  for  the  service  which  in  part 
I  render'd  him-f-I  am  his  enemy ; 
If  you  are  not  his  friend,  you  will  assist  me. 

WERNER. 

I  will. 

GABOR. 

But  how  ? 

werner  (showing  the  flannel.) 

There  is  a  secret  spring ; 


92  WERNER,  act  nil 

Remember,  I  discover'd  it  by  chance, 
And  used  it  but  for  safety. 

GABOR. 

Open  it, 
And  I  will  use  it  for  the  same. 

WERNER. 

I  found  it, 
As  I  have  said :  it  leads  through  winding  walls, 
(So  thick  as  to  bear  paths  within  their  ribs, 
Yet  lose  no  jot  of  strength  or  stateliness,) 
And  hollow  cells,  and  obscure  niches,  to 
I  know  not  whither ;  you  must  not  advance : 
Give  me  your  word. 

GABOR. 

It  is  unnecessary: 
How  should  I  make  my  way  in  darkness,  through 
A  Gothic  labyrinth  of  unknown  windings  ? 

WERNER. 

Yes,  but  who  knows  to  what  place  it  may  lead  ? 
I  know  not — (mark  you !) — but  who  knows  it 

might  not 
Lead  even  into  the  chambers  of  your  foe  ? 
So  strangely  were  contrived  these  galleries 
By  our  Teutonic  fathers  in  old  days, 
When  man  built  less  against  the  elements 
Than  his  next  neighbour.  >  You  must  not  advance 
Beyond  the  two  first  windings ;  if  you  do 
(Albeit  I  never  pass'd  them,)  I  '11  not  answer 
For  what  you  may  be  led  to. 

GABOR. 

But  I  will. 
A  thousand  thanks ! 

WERNER. 

You  '11  find  the  spring  more  obvious 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  93 

On  the  other  side ;  and,  when  you  would  return, 
It  yields  to  the  least  touch. 

GABOR. 

I  'II  in — farewell ! 
[Gabor  goes  in  by  the  secret  fianneL 

WERNER   (solllS.) 

What  have  I  done  ?     Alas  !  what  had  I  done 
Before  to  make  this  fearful  ?     Let  it  be 
Still  some  atonement  that  I  save  the  man, 
Whose  sacrifice  had  saved  perhaps  my  own — 
They  come  !    to  seek  elsewhere  Avhat  is  before 
them  ! 

Enter  Idenstein,  and  Others. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Is  he  not  here  ?     He  must  have  vanish'd  then 
Through  the  dim  Gothic  glass  by  pious  aid 
Of  pictured  saints,  upon  the  red  and  yellow 
Casements,  through  which  the  sunset  streams  like 

sunrise 
On  long  pearl-colour'd  beads  and  crimson  crosses, 
And  gilded  crosiers,  and  cross'd  arms,  and  cowls, 
And  helms,  and  twisted  armour,  and  long  swords, 
All  the  fantastic  furniture  of  windows, 
Dim  with  brave  knights  and  holy  hermits,  whose 
Likeness  and  fame  alike  rest  on  some  panes 
Of  crystal,  which  each  rattling  wind  proclaims 
As  frail  as  any  other  life  or  glory. 
He  's  gone,  however. 

WERNER. 

Whom  do  you  seek  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

A  villain  » 

WERNER. 

Why  need  you  come  so  far,  then  ? 


94  WERNER,  act  iiiJ 

IDENSTEIN. 

In  the  search 
Of  him  who  robb'd  the  baron. 

WERNER. 

Are  you  sure 
You  have  divined  the  man  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

As  sure  as  you 
Stand  there ;  but  where 's  he  gone  ? 

WERNER. 

Who? 

IDENSTEIN. 

He  we  sought. 

WERNER. 

You  see  he  is  not  here. 

IDENSTEIN. 

And  yet  we  traced  him 
Up  to  this  hall :  are  you  accomplices, 
Or  deal  you  in  the  black  art  ? 

WERNER. 

I  deal  plainly, 
To  many  men  the  blackest. 

IDENSTEIN. 

It  may  be 
I  have  a  question  or  two  for  yourself 
Hereafter ;  but  we  must  continue  how 
Our  search  for  t'  other. 

WERNER. 

You  had  best  begin 
Your  inquisition  now ;  I  may  not  be 
So  patient  always. 

IDENSTEIN. 

I  should  like  to  know, 
In  good  sooth,  if  you  really  are  the  man 
That  Stralenheim  's  in  quest  of? 


so.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  95 

WERNER. 

Insolent ! 
Said  you  not  that  he  was  not  here  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Yes,  one; 
But  there 's  another  whom  he  tracks  more  keenly, 
And  soon,  it  may  be,  with  authority 
Both  paramount  to  his  and  mine.     But,  come  ! 
Bustle,  my  boys  !  we  are  at  fault. 

\_Exit  Idenstein,  and  attendants, 

WERNER. 

In  what 
A  maze  hath  my  dim  destiny  involved  me ! 
/And  one  base  sin  hath  done  me  less  ill  than 
The  leaving  undone  one  far  greater.  ■•-  Down, 
Thou  busy  devil  !  rising  in  my  heart ! 
Thou  art  too  late  !  I  '11  nought  to  do  with  blood. 
Enter  Ulric. 

ULRIG. 

I  sought  you,  father. 

WERNER. 

Is  't  not  dangerous  ? 

ULRIC. 

No  ;  Stralenheim  is  ignorant  of  all 
Or  any  of  the  ties  between  us :  more- 
He  sends  me  here  a  spy  upon  your  actions. 
Deeming  me  wholly  his. 

WERNER. 

I  cannot  think  it : 
|  'Tis  but  a  snare  he  winds  about  us  both, 
i  To  swoop  the  sire  and  son  at  once. 

UJLRIC. 

I  cannot 
;  Pause  in  each  petty  fear,  and  stumble  at 
i  .The  doubts  that  rise  like  briars  in  our  path,    , 


96  WERNER,  act  in. 

But  must  break  through  them,  as  an  unarm'd  carle 
Would,  though  with  naked  limbs,  were  the  wolf 

rustling 
In  the  same  thicket  where  he  hew'd  for  bread : 
Nets  are  for  thrushes,  eagles  are  not  caught  so; 
We  '11  overfly,  or  rend  them. 

WERNER. 

Show  me  how? 

ULRIC 

Can  you  not  guess  ? 

WERNER. 

I  cannot. 

ULRIC. 

That  is  strange. 
Came  the  thought  ne'er  into  your  mind  last  night? 

WERNER. 

I  understand  you  not. 

ULRIC. 

Then  we  shall  never 
More  understand  each  other.     But  to  change 
The  topic 

WERNER. 

You  mean,  to  pursue  it,  as 
5Tis  of  our  safety. 

ULRIC. 

Right;  I  stand  corrected. 
I  see  the  subject  now  more  clearly,  and 
Our  general  situation  in  its  bearings. 
The  waters  are  abating ;  a  few  hours 
Will  bring  his  summon'd  myrmidons  from  Frank- 
fort, 
When  you  will  be  a  prisoner,  perhaps  worse, 
And  I  an  outcast,  bastardized  by  practice 
Of  this  same  baron  to  make  wav  for  him. 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  97 

WERNER. 

And  now  your  remedy  !    I  thought  to  escape 
By  means  of  this  accursed  gold,  but  now 
I  dare  not  use  it,  show  it,  scarce  look  on  it. 
Rethinks  it  wears  upon  its  face  my  guilt) 
For  motto,  not  the  mintage  of  the  state ; 
And,  for  the  sovereign's  head,  my  own  begirt 
With  hissing  snakes,  which  curl  around  my  tem- 
ples, 
And  cry  to  all  beholders — lo  !  a  villain  ! 

ULRIC- 

You  must  not  use  it,  at  least,  now ;  but  take 
This  ring.  \He  gives  Werner  a  jenveL 

WERNER. 

A  gem !    It  was  my  father's  ! 

ULRIC. 

And 
As  such  is  now  your  own.    With  this  you  must 
Bribe  the  Intendant  for  his  old  caleche 
And  horses  to  pursue  your  route  at  sunrise, 
Together  with  my  mother. 

WERNER. 

And  leave  you, 
So  lately  found,  in  peril  too  ? 

ULRIC. 

Fear  nothing ! 
The  only  fear  were  if  we  fled  together, 
For  that  would  make  our  ties  beyond  all  doubt. 
The  waters  only  lie  in  flood  between 
This  burgh  and  Frankfort ;  so  far  's  in  our  favour. 
The  route  on  to  Bohemia,  though  encumber'd, 
Is  not  impassable ;  and  when  you  gain 
A  few  hours'  start,  the  difficulties. will  be 
The  same  to  your  pursuers.     Once  beyond 
The  frontier,  and  you  're  safe. 
i 


?8  WERNER,  act  m, 

WERNER.. 

My  noble  boy  I 

ULRIC. 

Hush  I  hush !  no  transports :  we  '11  indulge  in  them 
In  Castle  Siegendorf !    Display  no  gold  : 
Show  Idenstein  the  gem  (I  know  the  man, 
And  have  look'd  through  him :)  it  will  answer  thus 
A  double  purpose.     Stralenheim  lost  gold— 
No  jewel:  therefore,  it  could  not  be  his; 
And  then  the  man,  who  was  possest  of  this, 
Can  hardly  be  suspected  of  abstracting 
The  baron's  coin,  when  he  could  thus  convert 
This  ring  to  more  than  Stralenheim  has  lost 
By  his  last  night's  slumber.     Be  not  over  timid 
In  your  address,  nor  yet  too  arrogant, 
And  Idenstein  will  serve  you.1^ 

WERNER. 

I  will  follow 
In  all  things  your  direction. 

ULRIC. 

I  would  have 
Spared  you  the  trouble ;  but  had  I  appear'd 
To  take  an  interest  in  you,  and  still  more 
By  dabbling  with  a  jewel  in  your  favour, 
All  had  been  known  at  once. 

WERNER. 

My  guardian  angel '. 
This  overpays  the  past.     But  how  wilt  thou 
Fare  in  our  absence  ? 

ULRIC. 

Stralenheim  knows  nothing 
Of  me  as  aught  of  kindred  with  yourself. 
I  will  but  wait  a  day  or  two  with  him 
To  lull  all  doubts,  and  then  rejoin  my  father. 


so.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  99 

"WERNER. 

To  part  no  more  ! 

ULRIC. 

I  know  not  that ;  but  at 
The  least  we  '11  meet  again  once  more. 

WERNER. 

My  boy  I 
My  friend— my  only  child,  and  sole  preserver ! 
Oh,  do  not  hate  me  ! 

ULRIC. 

Hate  my  father  I 

WERNER. 

Ay, 
My  father  hated  me.     Why  not,  my  son  I 

ULRIC. 

Your  father  knew  you  not  as  I  do. 

WERNER. 

Scorpions 
Are  in  thy  words !  Thou  know  me  ?  In  this  guise 
Thou  canst  not  know  me,  I  am  not  myself, 
Yet  (hate  me  not)  I  will  be  soon. 

ULRIO. 

I  '11  wait! 
In  the  mean  time  be  sure  that  all  a  son 
Can  do  for  parents  shall  be  done  for  mine. 

WERNER. 

I  see  it,  and  I  feel  it,  yet  I  feel 
Further — that  yqu  despise  me.  i 

ULRIC. 

Wherefore  should  I  ? 

WERNER. 

Must  I  repeat  my  humiliation  ? 

ULRIC. 

No! 
I  have  fathom'd  it  and  you.     But  let  us  talk 


1*00  WERNER,  act  in. 

Of  this  no  more.     Or  if  it  must  be  ever, 
Not  now;,  your  error  has  redoubled  all 
The  present  difficulties  of  our  house 
At  secret  war  with  that  of  Stralenheim ; 
All  we  have  now  to  think  of,  is  to  baffle 
Him.     I  have  shown  one  way. 

WERNER. 

The  only  one, 
And  I  embrace  it,  as  I  did  my  son, 
Who  show'd  himself  and  father's  safety  in 
One  day. 

ULRIC. 

You  shall  be  safe  :  let  that  suffice. 
Would  Stralenheim's  appearance  in  Bohemia 
Disturb  your  right,  or  mine,  if  once  we  were 
Admitted  to  our  lands  ? 

WERNER. 

Assuredly, 
Situate  as  we  are  now,  although  the  first 
Possessor  might,  as  usual,  prove  the  strongest, 
Especially  the  next  in  blood. 

ULRIC. 

Blood!  'tis 
*  A  word  of  many  meanings ;  in  the  veins 
And  out  of  them,  it  is  a  different  thing — 
And  so  it  should  be,  when  the  same  in  blood 
(As  it  is  call'd)  are  aliens  to  each  other, 
Like  Theban  brethren :  "when  a  part  is  bad, 
A  few  spilt  ounces  purify  the  rest.  4 

WERNER. 

I  do  not  apprehend  you. 

ULRIC. 

That  may  be— 
And  should,  perhaps, — and  yet — but  get  ye  ready ; 
You  and  my  mother  must  away  to-night. 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  lot 

Here  comes  the  Intendant;  sound  him  with  the 

gem, 
'Twill  sink  into  his  venal  soul  like  lead 
Into  the  deep,  and  bring  up  slime,  and  mud, 
And  ooze,  too,  from  the  bottom,  as  the  lead  doth 
With  its  greased  understratum  ;  but  no  less 
Will  serve  to  warn  our  vessels  through  these  shoals. 
The  freight  is  rich,  so  heave  the  line  in  time ! 
Farewell !  I  scarce  have  time,  but  yet  your  hand, 
My  father ! - 

WERNER. 

Let  me  embrace  thee  S 

ULRIC. 

We  may  be 
Observed :  subdue  your  nature  to  the  hour ! 
Keep  off  from  me  as  from  your  foe  ! 

WERNER. 

Accursed 
Be  he,  who  is  the  stifling  cause,  which  smothers 
The  best  and  sweetest  feeling  of  our  hearts, 
At  such  an  hour  too  I 

ULRIC. 

Yes,  curse— it  will  ease  you ! 
Here  is  the  Intendant. 

Enter  Idenstein. 

Master  Idenstein, 
How  fare  you  in  your  purpose  I  Have  you  caught 
The  rogue  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

No,  faith ! 

ULRIC. 

Well,  there  are  plenty  mores 
You  may  have  better  luck  another  chase. 
Where  is  the  baron  ? 
i2 


102  WERNER,  act  iii.ll 

IDENSTEIN. 

Gone  back  to  his  chamber : 
And  now  I  think  on 't,  asking  after  you 
With  nobly-born  impatience. 

ULRIC. 

Your  great  men 
Must  be  answer' d  on  the  instant,  as  the  bound 
Of  the  stung  steed  replies  unto  the  spur: 
sTis  well  they  have  horses,  too ;  for  if  they  had  not, 
'  I  fear  that  men  must  draw  their  chariots,  as 
They  say  kings  did  Sesostris. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Who  was  he  ? 

ULRIC. 

An  old  Bohemian — an  imperial  gipsy. 

IDENSTEIN. 

A  gipsy  or  Bohemian,  'tis  the  same, 

For  they  pass  by  both  names.     And  was  he  one  ?  I 

ULRIC 

I  've  heard  so ;  but  I  must  take  leave.     Intendant, 
Your  servant ! — Werner,  [to  Werner  slightly)  if 

that  be  your  name, 
Yours.  [Exit  Ulric. 

IDENSTEIN. 

A  well-spoken,  pretty-faced  young  man ! 
And  prettily  behaved  !    He  knows  his  station, 
You  see,  sir :  how  he  gave  to  each  his  due 
Precedence ! 

WERNER. 

I  perceived  it,  and  applaud 
<  His  just  discernment  and  your  own. 

IDENSTEIN. 

That  's  well— - 
That 's  very  well.  You  also  know  your  place,  too, 
And  yet  I  don't  know  that  I  know  your  place.    I 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  106 

Werner  (showing  the  ring.') 
Would  this  assist  your  knowledge  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

How !— What !— Eh ! 
A  jewel ! 

WERNER. 

'Tis  your  own  on  one  condition. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Mine ! — Name  it ! 

P  WERNER. 

That  hereafter  you  permit  me    t 
At  thrice  its  value  to  redeem  it ;  'tis 
A  family  ring. 

IDENSTEIN. 

A  family  !  yours  !  a  gem  ! 
I'm  breathless ! 

WERNER. 

You  must  also  furnish  me 
An  hour  ere  daybreak  with  all  means  to  quit 
This  place. 

IDENSTEIN. 

But  is  it  real  ?  let  me  look  on  it ; 
Diamond^  by  all  that's  glorious  ! 

WERNER. 

Come,  I'll  trust  you  ; 
Hfou  have  guess'd,  no  doubt,  that  I  was  born  above 
My  present  seeming. 

IDENSTEIN. 

I  can't  say  I  did, 
•  Though  this  looks  like  it ;  this  is  the  true  breeding  ■* 
Of  gentle  blood  1) 

WERNER.       *■ 

I  have  important  reasons 
For  wishing  to  continue  privily 
My  journey  hence. 


104  WERNER,  act  in. 

IDENSTEIN. 

So  then  you  are  the  man 
Whom  Stralenheim  's  in  quest  of? 

WERNER. 

I  am  not ; 

But  being  taken  for  him  might  conduct 
So  much  embarrassment  to  me  just  now, 
And  to  the  baron's  self  hereafter — 'tis 
To  spare  both,  that  I  would  avoid  all  bustle. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Be  you  the  man  or  no,  'tis  not  my  business ; 

Besides, fl  never  should  obtain  the  half 

From  this  proud,  niggardly  noble,  who  would  raise 

The  country  for  some  missing  bits  of  coin, 

And  never  offer  a  precise  reward — 

But  this  I  another  look  ! 

WERNER. 

Gaze  on  it  freely ; 

At  day-dawn  it  is  yours. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh,  thou  sweet  sparkler ! 
Thou  more  than  stone  of  the  philosopher  ! 
Thou  touchstone  of  Philosophy  herself! 
Thou  bright  eye  of  the  Mine  !  thou  load-star  of 
The  soul  i  the  true  magnetic  Pole  to  which 
All  hearts  point  duly  north,  like  trembling  needles ! 
Thou  flaming  Spirit  of  the  Earth  !  which  sitting 
High  on  the  monarch's  diadem,  attractest 
More  worship  than  the  Majesty  who  sweats 
Beneath  the  crown  which  makes  his  head  ache,  like 
Millions  of  hearts  which  bleed  to  lend  it  lustre  ! 
Shalt  thou  be  mine  ?  I  am,  methinks,  already 
A  little  king,  a  lucky  alchymist ! — 
A  wise  magician,  who  has  bound  the  devil 


sc.  ii.  A  TRAGEDY.  105 

Without  the  forfeit  of  his  soul.     But  come,    j 
Werner,  or  what  else  ? 

WERNER. 

Call  me  Werner  still, 
You  may  yet  know  me  by  a  loftier  title. 

IDENSTEIN. 

I  do  believe  in  thee  !  thou  art  the  spirit 

Of  whom  I  long  have  dream'd,  in  a  low  garb. — 

But  come,  I'll  serve  thee ;  thou  shalt  be  as  free 

As  air,  despite  the  waters  ;  |let  us  hence, 

I'll  show  thee  I  am  honest — (oh,  thou  jewel !) 

Thou  shalt  be  furnish'd,  Werner,  with  such  means 

Of  flight,  that  if  thou  wert  a  snail,  not  birds 

Should  overtake  thee. — Let  me  gaze  again  ! 

I  have  a  foster-brother  in  the  mart 

Of  Hamburgh,  skill'd   in   precious   stones — how 

many 
Carats  may  it  weigh  ? — Come,  Werner,  I  will  wing 

thee.  [Exeunt* 

SCENE  II. 

Stralenheim's  Chamber. 
Stralenheim  and  Fritz. 

FRITZ. 

All  's  ready,  my  good  lord  ! 

stralenheim. 

I  am  not  sleepy, 
And  yet  I  must  to  bed ;  I  fain  would  say 
To  rest,  but  something  heavy  on  my  spirit, 
Too  dull  for  wakefulness,  too  quick  for  slumber, 
Sits  on  me  as  a  cloud  along  the  sky, 
Which  willjiot  let  the  sunbeams  through,  nor  yet 


106  WERNER,  act  in. 

Descend  in  rain  and  end,  but  spreads  itself 
'Twixt  earth  and  heaven,  like  envy  between  man 
And  man,  an  everlasting  mist ; — I  will 
Unto  my  pillow. 

FRITZ. 

May  you  rest  there  well ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  feel,  and  fear,  I  shall. 

FRITZ. 

And  wherefore  fear  I 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  know  not  why,  and  therefore  do  fear  more, 

Because  an  undescribable but  'tis 

All  folly.     Were  the  locks  (as  I  desired) 
Changed,  to-day,  of  this  chamber  ?  for  last  night's 
Adventure  makes  it  needful. 
fritz. 

Certainly, 
According  to  your  order,  and  beneath 
The  inspection  of  myself  and  the  young  Saxon 
Who   saved   your  life.     I   think    they   call   him 
«  Ulric." 

STRALENHEIM. 

You  think  !  you  supercilious  slave  !  what  right 
Have  you  to  tax  your  memory,  which  should  be 
Quick,  proud,  and  happy  to  retain  the  name 
Of  him  who  saved  your  master,  as  a  litany 
Whose  daily  repetition  marks  your  duty — 
Get  hence  !  "  you  think"  indeed  !  you  who  stood 

still 
Howling  and  dripping  on  the  bank,  whilst  I 
Lay  dying,  and  the  stranger  dash'd  aside 
The  roaring  torrent,  and  restored  me  to 
Thank  him — and  despise  you.    "  You  think  /"  and 

scarce 


sc.  ii.  A  TRAGEDY.  107 

Can  recollect  his  name  !     I  will  not  waste 
More  words  on  you.     Call  me  betimes. 

FRITZ. 

#  Good  night ! 

[  trust  to-morrow  will  restore  your  lordship 
To  renovated  strength  and  temper. 

[The  scene  closes.. 

SCENE  III. 

The  secret  Passage, 

Gabor,  solus. 

Four — 
Five — six  hours  have  I  counted,  like  the  guard 
3f  outposts  on  the  never-merry  clock : 
rhat  hollow  tongue  of  time,  which,  even  when 
t  sounds  for  joy,  takes  something  from  enjoyment 
With  every  clang.     'Tis  a  perpetual  knell, 
rhough  for  a  marriage  feast  it  rings  :  each  stroke 
Jeals  for  a  hope  the  less  ;  the  funeral  note 
)f  Love  deep-buried  without  resurrection 
n  the  grave  of  Possession  ;  while  the  knoll 
)f  long-lived  parents  finds  a  jovial  echo 
[Y>  triple  Time  in  the  sons'  ear. 

I'm  cold — 
'm  dark — I've  blown  my  fingers — number'd  o'er 
\.nd  o'er  my  steps — and  knock'd  my  head  against 
iome  fifty  buttresses — and  roused  the  rats 
iihd  bats  in  general  insurrections/till 
rheir  cursed  pattering  feet  and  whirring  wings 
-.eave  me  scarce  hearing  for  another  sound.   I 
V.  light !  It  is  at  distance  (if  I  can^ 
deasure  in  darkness  distance)  :  but  it  blinks 
i>s  through  a  crevice  or  a  key-hole,  in 


108  WERNER,  act  in. 

The  inhibited  direction  ;  I  must  on, 

Nevertheless,  from  curiosity. 

A  distant  lamp-light  is  an  incident 

In  such  a  den  as  this.     Pray  Heaven  it  lead  me 

To  nothing  that  may  tempt  me !    Else— Heaven 

aid  me 
To  obtain  or  to  escape  it !  Shining  still ! 
Were  it  the  Star  of  Lucifer  himself, 
Or  he  himself  girt  with  its  beams,  I  could 
Contain  no  longer.     Softly  !  mighty  well ! 
That   corner's   turn'd — So— Ah  !   no ; — right !   it 

draws 
Nearer.     Here  is  a  darksome  angle — so, 
That's   weather'd. — Let  me   pause. — Suppose   it 

leads 
Into  some  greater  danger  than  that  which 
I  have  escaped — no  matter,  'tis  a  new  one  ; 
And  novel  perils,  like  fresh  mistresses, 
Wear  more  magnetic  aspects  :-^-I  will  on, 
And  be  it  where  it  may — I  have  my  dagger, 
Which  may  protect  me  at  a  pinch. — Burn  still, 
Thou  little  light !  'Thou  art  my  ignis  fatuus  ! 
My  stationary  Will  o'  the  wisp  ! — So  !  so  ! 
He  hears  my  invocation,  and  fails  not. 

[  The  scene  closes, 

SCENE  IV. 
A  Garden. 

Enter  Werner. 

I  could  not  sleep — and  now  the  hour's  at  hand ; 
All's  ready.     Idenstein  has  kept  his  word ; 
And,  station'd  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
Upon  the  forest's  edge,  the  vehicle 


sc.  iv.  A  TRAGEDY.  109 

!  Awaits  us.  I  Now  the  dwindling  stars  begin 
To  pale  in  Heaven ;  and  for  the  last  time  I 

I  Look  on  these  horrible  walls.     Oh  !  never,  never 

I  Shall  I  forget  them.     Hore  I  came  most  poor. 
But  not  dishonour'd  :  and  I  leave  them  with 
A  stain,— if  not  upon  my  name,  yet  in 
My  heart !  A  never-dying  canker-worm, 
Which  all  the  coming  splendour  of  the  lands, 
And  rights,  and  sovereignty  of  Siegendorf, 
£an  scarcely  lull  a  moment-:  I  must  find 
Some  means  of  restitution,  which  would  ease 
My  soul  in  part ;  but  how  without  discovery  ?— 
It  must  be  done,  however  ;  and  I'll  pause 
Upon  the  method  the  first  hour  of  safety. 

'  The  madness  of  my  Misery  led  to  this 
Base  infamy  j. Repentance  must  retrieve  it : 
I  will  have  nought  of  Stralenheim's  upon 
My  spirit,  though  he  would  grasp  all  of  mine ; 
Lands,  freedom,  life, — and  yet  he  sleeps  !  as  sound- 
ly, 
Perhaps,  as  infancy,  with  gorgeous  curtains 
Spread  for  his  canopy,  o'er  silken  pillows, 

Such  as  when Hark  !  what  noise  is  that?  Again! 

The  branches  shake ;  and  some  loose  stones  have 

fallen 
From  yonder  terrace. 

[Ulric  leafis  down  from  the  terrace, 
Ulric  !  ever  welcome  ! 
Thrice  welcome  now  i  this  filial—— 

ULRIC. 

Stop  !  before 
We  approach,  tell  me 

WERNER. 

Why  look  you  so  \ 

K 


1 10  WERNER,  act  m 

ULRIC. 

Do  I 
Behold  my  father,  or 

WERNER. 

What  ? 

ULRIC. 

An  assassin  I 

WERNER. 

Insane  or  insolent  ! 

ULRIC. 

Reply,  sir,  as 
You  prize  your  life,  or  mine  ! 

WERNER. 

To  what  must  1 
Answer  ? 

ULRIC. 

Are  you  or  are  you  not  the  assassin 
Of  Stralenheim  ? 

WERNER. 

I  never  was  as  yet 
The  murderer  of  any  man.     What  mean  you  ? 

ULRIC. 

Did  you  not  this  night  (as  the  night  before) 
Retrace  the  secret  passage  ?  Did  you  not 
Again  revisit  Stralenheim's  chamber?  and 

,  [Ulric  fiauses, 

WERNER. 

Proceed. 

ULRIC. 

Died  he  not  by  your  hand  ? 

WERNER. 

Great  God  I 

ULRIC. 

You  are  innocent,  then  !  my  father's  innocent ! 
Embrace  me  I  Yes,— your  tone — your  look— yes 
yesy— 


sc.iv.  A  TRAGEDY.  Ill 

Yet  say  so ! 

WERNER. 

If  I  e'er,  in  heart  or  mind, 
Conceived  deliberately  such  a  thought, 
But  rather  strove  to  trample  back  to  hell         * 
Such    thoughts— if  e'er   they   glared    a  moment 

through 
(The  irritation  of  my  oppressed  spirit — 
May  Heaven  be  shut  for  ever  from  my  hopes 
As  from  mine  eyes !  \ 

P  ULRIC. 

But  Str  lenheim  is  dead. 

WERNER. 

'Tis  horrible  !  'tis  hideous,  as  'tis  hateful  !— - 
But  what  have  I  to  do  wiih  this? 

ULRIC. 

No  bolt 
Is  forced ;  no  violence  can  be  detected, 
Save  on  his  body.     Part  of  his  own  household 
Have  been  alarmed  ;  but  as  the  Intendant  is 
Absent,  I  took  upon  myself  the  care 
Of  mustering  the  police.     His  chamber  has, 
Past  doubt,  been  enter'd  secretly.     Excuse  me, 
If  nature 

WERNER. 

f  Oh,  my  boy !  what  unknown  woes 
Of  dark  fatality,  like  clouds,  are  gathering 
',  Above  our  house  ! 

ULRIC. 

My  father  !  I  acquit  you  ! 
But  will  the  world  do  so  ?  Will  even  the  judge, 
If but  you  must  away  this  instant. 

WERNER. 

No! 
I'll  face  it.     Who  shall  dare  suspect  me  ? 


IIS  WERNER,  act  in. 

ULRIC. 

Yet 

You  had  no  guests — no  visitors— no  life 
Breathing  around  you,  save  my  mother's? 

WERNER. 

Ah! 
The  Hungarian  ! 

ULRIC. 

He  is  gone  !  he  disappear'd 
Ere  sunset. 

WERNER. 

No  ;  I  nid  him  in  that  very 
Conceal'd  and  fatal  gallery. 

ULRIC. 

There  I'll  find  him. 
[Ulric  is  going. 

WERNER. 

It  is  too  late :  he  had  left  the  palace  ere 

I  quitted  it.     I  found  the  secret  pannel 

Open ;  and  the  doors  which  lead  from  that  hall 

Which  masks  it :  I  but  thought  he  had  snatch'd 

the  silent 
And  favourable  moment  to  escape 
The  myrmidons  ot  Idenstein,  who  were 
Dogging  him  yester-even. 

ULRIC 

You  re-closed 
The  pannel  ? 

WERNER, 

Yes ;  and  not  without  reproach 
(And  inner  trembling  for  the  avoided  peril) 
At  his  dull  heedlessness,  in  leaving  thus 
His  shelterer's  asylum  to  the  risk 
Of  a  discovery. 


sc  iv.  a  tragedy.  113 


Certain. 


4         ULRIC. 

You  are  sure  you  closed  it  ? 

WERNER. 


ULRIC. 

That's  well :  bu    aad  been  better,  if 
You  ne'er  had   turn'd  it  to  a  den  for    ■        [.fife 
pauses. 

WERNER. 

Thieves! 
Thou  wouldst  say  :  I  must  bear  it,  and  deserve  it ; 
But  not 

ULRIC. 

No,  father  ;  do  not  speak  of  this ; 
This  is  no  hour  to  think  of  petty  crimes, 
But  to  prevent  the  consequence  of  great  ones. 
Why  would  you  shelter  this  man  I 

WERNER. 

Could  I  shun  it? 
A.  man  pursued  by  my  chief  foe ;  disgraced 
For  my  own  crime ;  a  victim  to  my  safety, 
Imploring  a  few  hours'  concealment  from 
rhe  very^wfetch  who  was  the  causene  needed 
Such  refuge.     Had  he  been  a  wolf,  I  could  not 
Have,  in  such  circumstances,  thrust  him  forth. 

ULRIC 

^.nd  like  the  wolf  he  hath  repaid  you.     But 
[t  is  too  late  to  ponder  this:  you  must 
Set  out  ere  dawn.     I  will  remain  here  to 
frace  out  the  murderer,  if  'tis  possible. 

WERNER. 

3ut  this  my  sudden  flight  will  give,  the  Mo'och 
suspicion:  two  new  victims,  in  the  lieu 
}f  one,  if  I  remain.     The  fled  Hungarian, 
Who  seems  the  culprit,  and — *— 
k  2 


114  WERNER,  act  m. 

ULRIC. 

Who  seems  ?  Who  else 
Can  be  so? 

WERNER. 

Not  2,  though  just  now  you  doubted — 
You,  my  son  !— doubted. 

ULRIC. 

And  do  you  doubt  of  him 
The  fugitive  ? 

WERNER. 

Boy  !  since  I  fell  into 
The  abyss  of  crime  (though  not  of  such  crime),  I 
Having  seen  the  innocent  oppressed  for  me, 
May  doubt  even  of  the  guilty's  guilt.  C  Your  heart 
Is  free,  and  quick  with  virtuous  wrath  to  accuse 
Appearances  ;  and  views  a  criminal 
In  Innocence's  shadow,  it  may  be, 
Because  'tis  dusky. 

*  ULRIC. 

And  if  I  do  so, 
What  will  mankind,  who  know  you  not,  or  knew 
But  to  oppress  ?  You  must  not  stand  the  hazard. 
Away  U-ril  make  all  easy.     Idenstien 
Will  for  his  own  sake  and  his  jewel's  hold 
His  peace — he  also  is  a  partner  in 
Your  flight— moreover 

WERNER. 

Fly  !  and  leave  ray  name 
Link'd   with   the  Hungarian's,  or     preferred   as 

poorest, 
To  bear  the  brand  of  bloodshed  ? 

ULRIC. 

Pshaw  !  leave  any  thing 
Except  our  father's  sovereignty  and  castles, 


sc.  iv.  A  TRAGEDY.  115 

For  which  you  have  so  long  panted  and  in  vain ! 
What  name?     You  leave  no  name,  since  that  you 

bear 
Is  feign'd. 

WERNER. 

Most  true;  but  still  I  would  not  have  it 
Engraved  in  crimson  in  men's  memories, 
Though  in  this  most  obscure  abode  of  men— 
Besides,  the  search 

ULRIC. 

I  will  provide  against 
Aught  that  can  touch  you.     No  one  knows  you 

here 
As  heir  of  Siegendorf :  if  Idenstein 
Suspects,  'tis  but  susfiicion,  and  he  is 
A  fool :  his  folly  shall  have  such  employment, 
Too,  that  the  unknown  Werner  shall  give  way 
To  nearer  thoughts  of  self.     The  laws  (if  e'er 
Laws  reach'd  this  village)  are  all  in  abeyance 
With  the  late  general  war  of  thirty  years, 
'Or  crush'd,  or  rising  slowly  from  the  dust, 
To  which  the  march  of  armies  trampled  them.) 
Stralenheim,  although  noble,  is  unheeded 
Here,  save  as  such — without  lands,  influence, 
Save  what  hath  perish'd  with  him ;  few  prolong 
A  week  beyond  their  funeral  rites  their  sway 
O'er  men,  unless  by  relatives,  whose  interest 
Is  roused  :  such  is  not  here  the  case;  he  died 
Alone,  unknown,— a  solitary  grave, 
Obscure  as  his  deserts,  without  a  scutcheon, 
Is  all  he'll  have,  or  wants.     If  I  discover 
The  assassin,  'twill  be  well — if  not,  believe  me 
None  else;  though  all  the  full  fed  train  of  menials 
May  howl  above  his  ashes  (as  they  did 
Around  him  in  his  danger  on  the  Oder), 


116  WERNER,  act  in. 

Will  no  more  stir  a  finger  now  than  then. 

Hence !   hence  !  I  must  not  hear  your  answer — 

look ! 
The  stars  are  almost  faded,  and  the  gray 
Begins  to  grizzle  the  black  hair  of  night. 
You  shall  not  answer — Pardon  me,  that  I 
Am  peremptory,  'tis  your  son  that  speaks, 
Your  long-losl,  late-found  son — Let's  call  my  mo- 
ther! 
Softly  and  swiftly  step,  and  leave  the  rest 
To  me ;  I'll  answer  for  the  event  as  far 
As  regards  you,  and  that  is  the  chief  point, 
As  my  first  duty,  which  shall  be  observed. 
We'll  meet  in  Castle  Siegendorf — once  more 
Our  banners  shall  be  glorious !     Think  of  that 
Alone,  and  leave  all  other  thoughts  to  me, 
Whose  youth  may  better  battle  with  them — Hence! 
And  may  your  age  be  happy ! — I  will  kiss 
My  mother  once  more,  then  Heaven's  speed  be 
With  you ! 

WERNER. 

This  counsel's  safe— but  is  it  honourable  ? 

ULRIC. 

To  save  a  father  is  a  child's  chief  honour. 

[Exeunt, 


80,1.  A  TRAGEDY.  117 


ACT  IV— SCENE  I. 

A  Gothic  Hall  in  the   Castle  of  Siegendorf  near 
Prague. 

Enter  Eric  and  Henrick,  retainers  of  the  Count, 

ERIC. 

So,  better  times  are  come  at  last;  to  these 
Oid  walls  new  masters  and  high  wassail,  both 
A  long  desideratum. 

HENRICK. 

Yea,  lor  masters, 
It  might  be  unto  those  who  long  for  novelty, 
Though  made  by  a  new  grave  :  but  as  for  wassail, 
Methinks  the  old  Count  Siegendorf  maintain'd 
His  feudal  hospitality  as  high 
As  e'er  another  prince  of  the  empire. 

ERIC 

Why, 
For  the  mere  cup  and  trencher,  we  no  aoubt 
Fared  passing  weil  j.  but  as  for  merriment 
And  sport,  without  which  salt  and  sauces  season     ^ 
The  cheer  but  scantily,  our  sizings  were 
Even  of  the  narrowest,  j 

HENRICK. 

T       jid  count  loved  not 
The  roar  of  revel ;  are  you  sure  that  this  does  ? 

ERIC- 
AS yet  he  hath  been  courteous  as  he's  bounteous,  * 
And  we  all  love  him. 


118  WERNER,  aotivi 

HENRICK. 

His  reign  is  as  yet 
Hardly  a  year  o'erpast  its  honey-moon, 
And  the  first  year  of  sovereigns  is  bridal ; 
Anon,  we  shall  perceive  his  real  sway 
And  moods  of  mind. 

ERIC. 

Pray,  heaven,  he  keep  the  present ! 
Then  his  brave  son,  Count  Ulric — there's  a  knight ! 
Pity  the  wars  are  o'er  ! 

HENRICK. 

Why  so  ? 

ERIC. 

Look  on  him ! 
And  answer  that  yourself. 

HENRICK. 

He's  very  youthful, 
And  strong  and  beautiful  as  a  young  tiger. 

ERIC. 

That's  not  a  faithful  vassal's  likeness. 

HENRICK. 

But 
Perhaps  a  true  one. 

ERIC. 

Pity,  as  I  said, 
The  wars  are  over  :  in  the  hall,  who  like 
Count  Ulric  for  a  well-supported  pride, 
Which  awes  but  yet  offends  not  ?  in  the  field, 
Who  like   him   with   his  spear  in  hand,  when 

gnashing 
His  tusks,  and  ripping  up  from  right  to  left 
The   howling   hounds,   the  boar   makes  for  the 

thicket  ? 
Who  backs  a  horse,  or  bears  a  hawk,  or  wears 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  119 

A  sword  like  him  ?  Whose  plume  nods  knightlier  ?  *. 

HENRICK. 

No  one's,  I  grant  you  :  do  not  fear,  if  War 
Be  long  in  coming,  he  is  of  that  kind 
Will  make  it  for  himself,  if  he  hath  not       f 
Already  done  as  much.  ■* 

ERIC. 

What  do  you  mean  t 

HENRICK. 

VTou  can't  deny  his  train  of  followers 
(But  few  our  fellow  native  vassals  born 
On  the  domain)  are  such  a  sort  of  knaves 
As (Pauses) 

ERIC. 

What  ? 

HENRICK. 

rhe  wars  (you  love  so  much)  leaves  living ; 

Like  other  Parents,  She  spoils  her  worst  children  a  1 

ERIC 

Nonsense  !  they  are  all  brave  iron-visaged  fellows,  1 
Such  as  old  Tilly  loved. 

HENRICK. 

And  who  loved  Tilly  ? 
ksk  that  at  Magdebourgh — or  for  that  matter 
*Vallenstein  either — they  are  gone  to 

ERIC 

Rest  ; 

Jut  what  beyond  'tis  not  ours  to  pronounce.  ^ 

HENRICK. 

wish  they  had  left  us  something  of  their  rest : 
The  country  (nominally  now  at  peace  ) 
s  overrun  with — God  knows  who — they  fly 
5y  night,  and  disappear  with  sunrise  ;  but 

leave  no  less  desolation,  nay,  even  more 
Than  the  most  often  warfare. 


120  WERNER.  act  iv. 

ERIC 

But  Count  Ulric— 
What  has  all  this  to  do  with  him  ? 

HENRICK. 

With  him  ! 

H*' might  prevent  it.     As  you  say  he's  fend 

Of  war,  why  makes  he  it  not  on  those  marauders? 

ERIC. 

You'd  better  ask  himself. 

HENRICK. 

I  would  as  soon 
Ask  of  the  lion  why  he  laps  not  milk. 

ERIC. 

And  here  he  comes ! 

HENBICK. 

The  devil !  you'll  hold  your  tongue  ? 

ERIC. 

Why  do  you  turn  so  pale  ? 

HENRICK. 

'Tis  nothing — but 
Be  silent! 

ERIC. 

I  will  upon  what  you  have  said. 

HENRICK. 

I  assure  you  I  meant  nothing,  a  mere  sport 
Of  words,  no  more ;  besides,  had  it  been  other- 
wise, 
He  is  to  espouse  the  gentle  B  \roness 
Ida  of  Stralenheim,  the  late  Baron's  heiress, 
And  she  no  doubt  will  soften  wustsoever 
O*  fierceness  the  late  long  intestine  wars 
Have  given  all  natures,  ancl  most  un  o  those 
Who  were  born  in  them,  jaud  bred  up  upon 
The  knees  of  Homicide ;  sprinckled,  as  it  were, 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  121 

With  blood  even  at  their  baptism.     Prithee,  peace 
On  all  that  I  have  said  ! 

Enter  Ulric  and  Rodolph. 

Good  morrow,  Count ! 

ULRIC. 

Good  morrow,  worthy  Henrick.     Eric,  is 
All  ready  foy  the  chase  ? 

ERIC. 

The  dogs  are  order'd 
Down  to  the  forest,  and  the  vassals  out 
To  beat  the  bushes,  and  the  day  looks  promising. 
Shall  I  call  forth  your  excellency's  suite  ? 
What  courser  will  you  please  to  mount? 

ULRIO. 

The  dun, 
Walstein. 

eric. 
I  fear  he  scarcely  has  recover'd 
The  toils  of  Monday :  'twas  a  noble  chase, 
You  spear'd  four  with  your  own  hand. 

ULRIO. 

True,  good  Eric, 
I  had  forgotten — let  it  be  the  grey  then, 
Old  Ziska :  he  has  not  been  out  this  fortnight,  + 

ERIC 

He  shall  be  strait  caparison'd.     How  many 
Of  your  immediate  retainers  shall 
Escort  you  ? 

ULRIC. 

I  leave  that  to  Weilburgh,  our 
Master  of  the  horse.  {Exit  Eric* 

Rodolph  ! 


122  WERNER,  a@t  iv.  : 

RODOLPH. 

My  lord ! 

ULRIC. 

The  news 
Is  awkward  from  the — (Rodolph  fioints  to  Hen- 
rick) 

How  now,  Henrick,  why 
Loiter  you  here  ? 

HENRICK. 

For  your  commands,  my  lord. 

ULRIC. 

Go  to  my  father,  and  present  my  duty, 

And  learn  if  he  would  aught  with  me  before 

I  mount.  [Exit  Henrick, 

Rodolph,  our  friends  have  had  a  check 
Upon  the  frontiers  of  Franconia,  and 
'Tis  rumour'd  that  the  column  sent  against  them 
Is  to  be  strengthen'd.     I  must  join  them  soon. 

RODOLPH. 

Best  wait  for  further  and  more  sure  advices. 

ULRIC. 

I  mean  it — and  indeed  it  could  not  well 
Have  fallen  out  at  a  time  more  opposite 
To  all  my  plans. 

RODOLPH. 

It  will  be  difficult 
To  excuse  your  absence  to  the  Count,  your  father. 

ULRIC. 

Yes,  but  the  unsettled  state  of  our  domain 

In  high  Silesia  will  permit  and  cover 

My  journey.     In  the  mean  time,  when  we  are 

Engaged  in  the  chase,  draw  off  the  eighty  men 

Whom  Wolffe  leads — keep  the   forests  on  your 

route : 
You  know  it  well  ? 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  123 


When  we- 


RODOLPH. 

As  well  as  on  that  night 


ulric. 
We  will  not  speak  of  that  until 
We  can  repeat  the  same  with  like  success; 
And  when  you  have  join'd,  give  Rosenberg  this 
letter.  \_Gives  a  letter. 

Add  further,  that  I  have  sent  this  slight  addition 
To  our  force  with  you  and  Wolffe,  as  herald  of 
My  coming,  though  I  could  but  spare  them  ill 
At  this  time,  as  my  father  loves  to  keep 
.Full  numbers  of  retainers  round  the  castle, 
Until  this  marriage,  and  its  feasts  and  fooleries, 
Are  rung  out  with  its  peal  of  nuptial  nonsense, 

RODOLPH. 

I  thought  you  loved  the  lady  Ida  ? 

ULRIC. 

Why, 
I  do  so — but  it  follows  not  from  that 
I  would  bind  in  my  youth  and  glorious  years, 
So  brief  and  burning,  with  a  lady's  zone, 
Although  'twere  that  of  Venus ; — but  I  love  her,  ^ 
As  woman  should  be  loved,  fairly  and  solely. 

RODOLPH. 

And  constantly  ? 

ULRIC 

I  think  so  ;  for  I  love 
Nought  else.-4But  I  have  not  the  time  to  pause 
Upon  these  gewgaws  of  the  heart.     Great  things 
We  have  to  do  ere  long.     Speed  !  Speed  !   good 
Rodolph  ! 

RODOLPH. 

On  my  return,  however,  I  shall  find 

The  Baroness  Ida  lost  in  Countess  Siegendorf  ? 


124  Werner,  ast  iv. 

ULRIC. 

Perhaps :  my  father  wishes  it,  and  sooth 
'Tis  no  bad  policy  ;/'this  union  with 
The  last  bud  of  the  rival  branch  at  once 
Unites  the  future  and  destroys  the  past 

RODOLPH. 

Adieu ! 

ULRIC. 

Yet  hold — we  had  better  keep  together 
Until  the  chase  begins ;  then  draw  thou  off, 
And  do  as  I  have  said. 

RODOLPH 

I  will.     But  to 
Return— 'twas  a  most  kind  act  in  the  count, 
Your  father,  to  send  up  to  Konigsberg 
For  this  fair  orphan  of  the  baron,  and 
To  hail  her  as  his  daughter. 

ULRIC. 

Wondrous  kind ! 
Especially  as  little  kindness  till 
Then  grew  between  them. 

RODOLPH. 

The  late  baron  died 
Of  a  fever,  did  he  not  ? 

ULRIC. 

How  should  I  know  ? 

RODOLPH. 

I  have   heard  it  whisper'd  there  was  something 

strange 
Ahout  his  death— and  even  the  place  of  it 
Is  scarcely  known. 

ULRIC. 

Some  obscure  village  on 
The  Saxon  or  Silesian  frontier. 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  125 

RODOLPH. 

He 
Has  left  no  testament — no  farewell  words  ? 

ULRIC. 

I  am  neither  confessor  nor  notary, 
So  cannot  say. 

RODOLPH. 

Ah!  here's  the  lady  Ida. 

Enter  Ida  Stralenheim. 

ulric. 
You  are  early,  my  sweet  cousin  ! 

.    IDA. 

Not  too  early, 
Dear  Ulric,  if  I  do  not  interrupt  you. 
Why  do  you  call  me  "  Cousin ,?" 
ulrio  {smiling). 

Are  we  not  so  ? 

IDA. 

Yes,  but  I  do  not  like  the  name ;  methinks 
It  sounds  too  cold,  as  if  you  thought  upon 
Our  pedigree,  and  only  weigh'd  our  blood. 

ulric  (starting). 
Blood  ! 

IDA. 

Why  does  yours  start  from  your  cheeks  ?  -\- 

ULRIC. 

Ay  !  doth  it  ? 

IDA. 

[t  doth— but  no  !  it  rushes  like  a  torrent  i 
Even  to  your  brow  again. 

ulric  {recovering  himself). 
And  if  it  fled, 
[t  only  was  because  your  presence  sent  it 
J.  2 


126  WERNER,  act  iv. 

j   Back  to  my  heart,  which  beats  for  you,  sweet  cousin! 

IDA. 

"  Cousin"  again. 

ULRIC. 

Nay,  then  I'll  call  you  sister. 

IDA. 

I  like  that  name  still  worse—would  we  had  ne'er 
Been  aught  of  kindred  ! 

ulric  (gloomily). 

Would  we  never  had  ! 

IDA. 

Oh  heaven  !  and  can  you  wish  that  ? 

ULRIC 

Dearest  Ida ! 
Did  I  not  echo  your  own  wish  ? 

IDA. 

Yes,  Ulric, 
(  But  then  I  wish'd  it  not  with  such  a  glance, 
And  scarce  knew  what  I  said  ;,  but  let  me  be 
Sister,  or  cousin,  what  you  will,  so  that 
I  still  to  you  am  something. 

ULRIC 

You  shall  be 
All— all— 

IDA. 

And  you  to  me  are  so  already ; 
But  I  can  wait. 

ULRIC. 

Dear  Ida ! 

IDA. 

Call  me  Ida, 
Your  Ida,  for  I  would  be  yours,  none  else's — 
Indeed  I  have  none  else  left,  since  my  poor  fa- 
ther—  [She  pauses. 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  127 

ULRIC. 

ou  have  mine— you  hare  me. 

IDA. 

Dear  Ulric,  how  I  wish 
My  father  could  but  view  our  happiness, 
Which  wants  but  this  ! 

ULRIC. 

Indeed  I 

IDA. 

You  would  have  loved  hhn,^ 
He  you  ;  for  the  brave  ever  love  each  other:  ' 

His  manner  was  a  little  cold^his  spirit 
Proud  (as  is  birth's  prerogative),  but  under   f 

This  grave    exterior— would  you    had   known 

each  other ! 
Had  such  as  you  been  near  him  on  his  journey, 
He  had  not  died  without  a  friend  to  soothe 
His  last  and  lonely  moments. 

ULRIC 

Who  says  that? 

IDA. 

What? 

ULRIC 

That  he  died  alone. 

IDA. 

The  general  rumour, 
And  disappearance  of  his  servants,  who 
Have  ne'er  return'd  t^that  fever  was  most  deadly  „  -: 
Which  swept  them  all  away.  ) 

ULRIC. 

If  they  were  near  him. 
He  could  not  die  neglected  or  alone. 

IDA. 

(Alas  !  what  is  a  menial  to  a  death-bed, 
When  the  dim  eye  rolls  vainly  round  for  what  j 


128  WERNER,  act  iv. 

It  loves  ?— they  say  he  died  of  a  fever. 

ULRIC. 

Say  I 
It  ivas  so. 

IDA. 

I  sometimes  dream  otherwise, 

ULRIC. 

All  dreams  are  false. 

IDA. 

And  yet  I  see  him  as 
I  see  you. 

ULRIC. 

Where  ? 

IDA. 

In  sleep — I  see  him  lie 
Pale,  bleeding,  and  a  man  with  a  raised  knife  ) 
Beside  him. 

ULRIC. 

But  you  do  not  see  his  face  ? 
ida  {looking  at  him). 
No  !  Oh,  my  God  1  do  you  ? 

ULRIC. 

Why  do  you  ask  ? 

IDA. 

Because  you  look  as  if  you  saw  a  murderer  !  vj 

ulric  (agitatedly). 
Ida,  this  i,s  mere  childishness  ;  your  weakness 
Infects  me,  to  my  shame  ;;but  as  all  feelings 
Of  yours  are  common  to  me,  it  affects  me. 
Prithee,  sweet  child,  change 

IDA. 

Child,  indeed  !  I  have 
Full  fifteen  summers  !  [yi  bugle  sounds. 

RODOLPH. 

Hark)  my  lord,  the  bugle  ! 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  129 

IDA  {peevishly  to  rodolph) 
Why  need  you  tell  him  that  ?    Can  he  not  hear  it 
Without  your  echo  ? 

RODOLPH. 

Pardon  me,  fair  baroness ! 

IDA. 

I  will  not  pardon  you,  unless  you  earn  it 
By  aiding  me  in  my  dissuasion  of 
Count  Ulric  from  the  chase  to-day. 

RODOLPH. 

You  will  not, 
Lady,  need  aid  of  mine. 

ULRIC. 

I  must  not  now 
Forego  it. 

IDA. 

But  you  shall ! 

ULRIC. 

Shall ! 

IDA. 

Yes,  or  be 
No  true  knight. — Come,  dear  Ulric  \  yield  to  me 
In  this,  for  this  one  day  ;.the  day  looks  heavy, 
And  you  are  turn'd  so  pale  and  ill. 

ULRIC 

You  jest. 

IDA. 

Indeed  I  do  not :— ask  of  Rodolph. 

RODOLPH. 

Truly, 
My  lord,  within  this  quarter  of  an  hour      7 
You  have  changed  more  than  I  e'er  saw  you  change  • 
In  years. 

ULRIC. 

'Tis  nothing ;  but  if  'twere,  the  air 


iso  WERNER,  act  m 

Would  soon  restore  me.     I'm  the  true  cameleon, 
And  live  but  on  the  atmosphere  ;fyour  feasts 
In  castle  halls,  and  social  banquets,  nurse  not 
My  spirit— I'm  a  forester  and  breather 
Of  the  steep  mountain-tops,  where  I  love  all 
The  eagle  loves* 

IDA. 

Except  his  prey,  I  hope. 

ULRIC. 

Sweet  Ida,  wish  me  a  fair  chase,  and  I 

Will  bring  you  six  boars'  heads  for  trophies  home, 

IDA. 

And  will  you  not  stay, then  ?  You  shall  not  go! 
Come  !  I  will  sing  to  you. 

ULRIC. 

Ida,  you  scarcely 
Will  ma  ke  a  soldier's  wife. 

IDA. 

I  do  not  wish 
To  be  so  ;  for  I  trust  these  wars  are  over, 
And  you  will  live  in  peace  on  your  domains. 

Enter  Werner  as  Count  Siegendorf. 

ULRIC. 

My  father,  I  salute  you,  and  it  grieves  me 

With  such  brief  greeting. — You  have  heard  out 

bugle; 
The  vassals  wait. 

SIEGENDORF. 

So  let  them — You  forget 
To-morrow  is  the  appointed  festival 
In  Prague  for  peace   restored.     You   are  apt  to 
follow 


so.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  131 

The  chase  with  such  an  ardour  as  will  scarce 
Permit  you  to  return  to-day,  or  if 
Return'd,  too  much  fatigued  to  join  to-morrow 
The  nobles  in  our  marshall'd  ranks. 

ULRIC. 

You,  Count, 

Will  well  supply  the  place  of  both 1  am  not 

A.  lover  of  these  pageantries. 

SIEGENDORF. 

No,  Ulric ; 
[t  were  not  well  that  you  alone  of  all       4 
Dur  young  nobility 

IDA. 

And  far  the  noblest    - 
[n  aspect  and  demeanour. 

SIEGENDORF  {to  IDA.) 

True,  dear  child, 
rhough  somewhat  frankly  said  for  a  fair  damsel.—- 
But,  Ulric,  recollect  too  our  position, 
50  lately  re-instated  in  our  honours.  * 

iielieve  me, 'twould  be  mark'd  in  any  house, 
But    most  in   ours,    that    one    should    be  found' 

wanting 
\t  such  a  time  and  place.     Besides,  the  Heaven 
Which    gave   us    back    our    own,   in    the    same 

moment 
[t  spread  its  Peace  o'er  all,  hath  double  claims 
3n  us  for  thanksgiving  ;  first,  for  our  country, 
!\nd  next,  that  we  are  here  to  share  its  blessings. 
ulric  (aside.)  *• 

Devout,  too  !  Well,  sir,  I  obey  at  once. 

[Then  aloud  to  a  Servant.} 
Uudwig,  dismiss  the  train  without  1  £  Exit  Ludwigk 


132  WERNER,  act  iy. 

IDA. 

And  so 
You  yield  at  once  to  him  what  I  for  hours 
Might  supplicate  in  vain. 

siegendorf  (smiling.) 

You  are  not  jealous 
Gf  me,  I  trust,  my  pretty  Rebel !  who 
Would  sanction  disobedience  against  all 
Except  thyself?  But  fear  not,  thou  shalt  rule  him 
Hereafter  with  a  fonder  sway  and  firmer. 

IDA. 

But  I  should  like  to  govern  now. 

SIEGENDORF. 

You  shall, 
Your  harfiy  which  by  the  way  awaits  you  with 
The  Countess  in  her  chamber.     She  complains 
That  you  are  a  sad  truant  to  your  music : 
She  attends  you. 

IDA. 

Then  good  morrow,  my  kind  kinsmen  . 
Ulric,  you'll  come  and  hear  me  ? 

ULRIC. 

By  and  by. 

IDA. 

Be  sure  I'll  sound  it  better  than  your  bugles  j 
Then  pray  you  be  as  punctual  to  its  notes  : 
I'll  play  you  King  Gustavus'  march. 

ULRIC 

And  why  not 
Old  Tilly's  ? 

IDA. 

Not  that  monster's  !  I  should  think 
My  harp-strings  rang  with  groans,  and  not  with 
music, 

|  Could    aught   of  hit    sound    on   it;— but  come 
quickly ; 


se.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  133 

Your  mother  will  be  eager  to  receive  you. 

[Exit  Ida. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Ulric,  I  wish  to  speak  with  you  alone. 

ULRIC. 

My  Time's  your  Vassal —      {Aside  to  Rodolph.) 

Rodolph,  hence  !  and  do 
As  I  directed ;  and  by  his  best  speed 
And  readiest  means  let  Rosenberg  reply. 

RODOLPH. 

Count  Siegendorf,  command  you  aught?  I  am  bound 
Upon  a  journey  past  the  frontier. 

SIEGENDORF  {starts.) 

Ah!— 
Where  ?  on  what  frontier  ? 

RODOLPH. 

The  Silesian,  on 
My  way — {Aside  to  Ulric.)   Where  shall  I  say  ? 
ulric  {aside  to  rodolph.) 

To  Hamburgh. 
{Aside  to  himself?)  That 
Word  will  I  think  put  a  firm  padlock  on 
His  further  inquisition. 

RODOLPH. 

Count,  to  Hamburgh. 
siegendorf  (agitated?) 
Hamburgh  !  no,  I  have  nought  to  do  there,  nor 
Am  aught  connected  with  that  city.     Then 
God  speed  you  ! 

RODOLPH. 

Fare  ye  well,  Count  Siegendorf  2 

\Exit  Rodolph. 
siegendorf. 
Ulric,  this  man,  who  has  just  departed,  is 
One  of  those  strange  companions,  whom  I  fain 

M 


134  WERNER,  act  iv. 

Would  reason  with  you  on. 

ULRIC. 

My  lord,  he  is 
Noble  by  birth,  of  one  of  the  first  bouses 
In  Saxony. 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  talk  not  of  his  birth, 
But  of  his  bearing.     Men  speak  lightly  of  him. 

ULRIC. 

So  they  will  do  of  most  men.    Even  the  Monarch 
Is  not  fenced  from  his  chamberlain's  slander/ or 
The  sneer  of  the  last  courtier  whom  he  has  made 
Great  and  ungrateful. 

SIEGENDORF. 

If  I  must  be  plain, 
The   World    speaks    more   than  lightly  of   this 

Rodolph ; 
They  say  he  is  leagued  with  the  "  black  bands" 

who  still 
Ravage  the  frontier. 

ULRIC. 

And  will  you  believe 
The  world  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

In  this  cast— yes. 

ULRIC. 

In  any  case, 
I  thought  you  knew  it  better  than  to  take 
An  accusation  for  a  sentence. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Son! 
I  understand  you  :  you  refer  to         but 
My  Destiny  has  so  involved  about  me 
Her  spider  web,  that  I  can  only  flutter 
Like  the  poor  fly,  but  break  it  not.    Take  heeel. 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  135 

Ulric ;  you  have  seen  to  what  the  passions  led 

me; 
Twenty  long  years  of  misery  and  famine 
Quench'd  them  not — twenty  thousand  more,  per- 

chance, 
Hereafter  (or  even  here  in  moments  which 
Might  date  for  years,  did  Anguish  make  the  dial,) 
May  not  obliterate  or  expiate 
The  madness  and  dishonour  of  an  instant. 
Ulric,  be  warn'd  by  a  father  ! — I  was  not> 
By  mine,  and  you  behold  me  I 

tJLRIC. 

I  behold 
The  prosperous  and  beloved  Siegendorf, 
Lord  of  a  prince's  appanage,  and  honour'd 
By  those  he  rules,  and  those  he  ranks  with. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Ah! 
Why  wilt  thou  call  me  prosperous,  while  I  fear 
For  thee  ?     Beloved,  when  thou  lovest  me  not  1 
All  hearts  but  one  may  beat  in  kindness  for  me — 
But  if  my  son's  is  cold  ! 

ULRIC. 

Who  dare  say  that  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

None  else  but  I,  who  see  \i—-feel  it— keener 
Than  would  your  adversary,  who  dared  say  so, 
Your  sabre  in  his  heart  1     But  mine  survives 
The  wound. 

ULRIC. 

You  err.  /  My  nature  is  not  given 
To  outward  fondling ;  how  should  it  be  so, 
After   twelve   years'  divorcement   from   my    pa- 
rents ? 


136  WERNER,  act  t| 

SIEGENDORF. 

And  did  not  I  too  pass  those  twelve  torn  years 
In  a  like  absence  ?  [  But  'tis  vain  to  urge  you — 
Nature  was  never  call'd  back  by  remonstrance. 
Let's  change  the  theme. )  I  wish  you  to  consider 
That  these  young  violent  nobles  of  high  name, 
But  dark  deeds  (ay,  the  darkest,  if  all  Rumour 
Reports  be  true),  with  whom  thou  consortest, 

Will  lead  thee 

ulric  (imfiatiently). 

I'll  be  led  by  no  man. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Nor 
Be  leader  of  such,  I  would  hope :  at  once 
To  wean  thee  from  the  perils  of  thy  youth 
And  haughty  spirit,  I  have  thought  it  well 
That  thou  should'st  wed  the  lady  Ida— more, 
As  thou  appear' st  to  love  her. 
ulric. 

I  have  said 
I  will  obey  your  orders,  were  they  to 
Unite  with  Hecate— can  a  son  say  more  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

He  says  too  much  in  saying  this.    It  is  not 

The  nature  of  thine  age,  nor  of  thy  blood, 

Nor  of  thy  temperament,  to  talk  so  coolly, 

Or  act  so  carelessly,  in  that  which  is 

The  bloom  or  blight  of  all  men's  happiness, 

(For  Glory's  pillow  is  but  restless  if 

Love  lay  not  down  his  cheek  there) :  some  strong 

bias, 
Some  master  fiend  is  in  thy  service  to 
Misrule  the  mortal  who  believes  him  slave, 
And  makes  his  every  thought  subservient;  else 
Thoud'st  say  at  once, "  I  love  young  Ida,  and 
Will  wed  her,"  or,  "  I  love  her  not,  and  all 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  \37 

The  powers  of  earth  shall  never  make  me." — So 
Would  I  have  answer'd. 

ULRIC. 

Sir,  you  wed  for  love. 

SIEGENDORF. 

1 1  did,  and  it  has  been  my  only  refuge 
Hn  many  miseries. 

ULKIC. 

Which  miseries 
Had  never  been  but  for  this  love-match.  * 

SIEGENDORF. 

(Still 
Against  your  age  and  nature  !  who  at  twenty 
E'er  answer'd  thus  till  now  ? 

ULRIC. 

Did  you  not  warn  me 
Against  your  own  example  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Boyish  sophist ! 
In  a  word,  do  you  love,  or  love  not,  Ida  ? 

ULRIC. 

What  matters  it,  if  I  am  ready  to 
Obey  you  in  espousing  her  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

As  far 
As  you  feel,  nothing,  but  all  life  for  her. 
She's  young — all-beautiful — adores  you— is 
Endow'd  with  qualities  to  give  happiness, 

(Such  as  rounds  common  life  into  a  dream 
Of  something  which  your  poets  cannot  paint,     j 

\  And  (if  it  were  not  wisdom  to  love  virtue) 

(For  which  Philosophy  might  barter  Wisdom  ; 

•  And  giving  so  much  happiness,  deserves 
A  little  in  returny    I  would  not  have  her 
Break  her  heart  for  a  man  who  has  none  to  break} 
m    2 


138  WERNER,  act  iv: 

Or  wither  on  her  stalk  like  some  pale  rose 
Deserted  by  the  bird  she  thought  a  nightingale, 
According  to  the  Orient  tale.     She  is 

ULRIC 

The  daughter  of  dead  Stralenheim,  your  foe  : 
I'll  wed  her,  ne'ertheless ;  though,  to  say  truth, 

/  Just  now  I  am  not  violently  transported 

/  In  favour  of  such  unions. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But  she  loves  you. 

ULRIC. 

,    And  I  love  her,  and  therefore  would  think  twice.  ^ 

SIEGENDORF. 

Alas !  Love  never  did  so. 

ULRIC 

Then  'tis  time 
He  should  begin,  and  take  the  bandage  from 
-<  His  eyes,  and  look  before  he  leaps  :  till  now 
He  hath  ta'en  a  jump  i'  the  dark. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But  you  consent  ? 

ULRIC. 

I  did  and  do. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Then  fix  the  day. 

ULRIC 

'Tis  usual, 
And,  certes,  courteous,  to  leave  that  to  the  Lady. 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  will  engage  for  her. 

ULRIC 

So  will  not  I 
For  any  woman ;  and  as  what  I  fix, 
I  fain  would  see  unshaken,  when  she  gives 
Her  answer,  I'll  give  mine. 


so.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  139 

SIEGENDORF. 

But  'tis  your  office 
To  woo 

ULRiC. 

Count,  'tis  a  marriage  of  your  making, 
So  be  it  of  your  wooing ;  but  to  please  you 
I  will  now  pay  my  duty  to  my  mother, 
With  whom,  you  know,  the  lady  Ida  is— 
What  would   you   have?     You  have  forbid   my 

stirring 
For  manly  sports  beyond  the  castle  walls, 
And  I  obey ;  you  bid  me  turn  a  chamberer,      ^-f 
To  pick  up  gloves,  and  fans,  and  knitting-needles, 
And  list  to  songs  and  tunes,  and  watch  for  smiles, 
And  smile  at  pretty  prattle,  and  look  into 
The  eyes  of  feminie,  as  though  they  were 
The  stars  receding  early  to  our  wish 
Upon  the  dawn  of  a  World-winning  battle— 
What  can  a  son  or  man  do  more  ?     [Exit  Ulric. 

SIEGENDORF    {solua). 

Too  much  !— 
Too  much  of  duty  and  too  little  love  ! 
He  pays  me  in  the  coin  he  owes  me  not : 
For  sueh  hath  been  my  wayward  fate,  I  could  not 
Fulfil  a  parent's  duties  by  his  side 
Till  now ;  but  love  he  owes  me,  for  my  thoughts 
Ne'er  left  him,  nor  my  eyes  long'd  without  tears 
To  see  my  child  again,  and  now  I  have  found  him  ! 
But  how  !  obedient,  but  with  coldness ;  duteous 
In  my  sight,  but  with  carelessness;  mysterious. 
Abstracted — distant— much  given  to  long  absence, 
And  where— none  know— in  league  with  the  most 

riotous 
Of  our  young  nobles;  though,  to  do  him  justice, 
He  never  stoops  down  to  their  vulgar  pleasures  ;    j 


140  WERNER,  act  iv., 

Yet  there's  some  tie  between  them  which  I  cannot 
Unravel.     They  look  up  to  him — consult  him— 
Throng  round  him  as  a  leader:  but  with  me 
He  hath  no  confidence  !     Ah  !  can  I  hope  it 
After — what!  doth  my  father's  curse  descend 
Even  to  my  child?  Or  is  the  Hungarian  near 
To  shed  more  blood,  or — oh !  if  it  should  be  ! 
Spirit  of  Stralenheim,  ciost  thou  walk  these  walls 
To  wither  him  and  his — who,  though  they  slew  not, 
v  Unlatch'd  the  door  of  death  for  thee  ?  'Twas  not 
Our  fault,  nor  is  our  sin  :  thou  wert  our  foe, 
And  yet  I  spared  thee  when  my  own  Destruction 
Slept  with  thee,  to  awake  with  thine  awakening  ! 
Av:d  only  took — accursed  Gold  !  thou  liest 
Like  poison  in  my  hands ;  I  dare  not  use  thee, 
Nor  part  from  thee ;  thou  cam'st  in  such  a  guise, 
Mi  thinks  thou  wouldsr  contaminate  all  hands 
Like  mine.     Yet  I  have  done,  to  atone  for  thee, 
Thou  vilbnous  Gold  !  and  thy  dead  master's  doom, 
Though  he  died  not  by  me  or  mine,  as  much 
As  if  he  were  my  brother  !  I  have  ta'en 
His  orphan  Ida — cherish'd  her  as  one 
Who  will  be  mine. 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

ATTENDANT. 

The  abbot,  if  it  please 
Your  excellency,  whom  you  sent  for,  waits 
Upon  you.  [Exit  Attendant. 

Enter  the  Prior  Albert. 

PRIOR   ALBERT. 

Peace  be  with  these  walls,  and  all 


sc.i.  A  TRAGEDY  141 

Within  them  ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

Welcome,  welcome,  holy  father  ! 
And  may  thy  prayer  be    heard  ! — all  men   have 

need 
Of  such,  and  I 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

Have  the  first  claim  to  all 
The  prayers  of  our  community.     Our  convent, 
Erected  by  your  ancestors,  is  still 
Protected  by  their  children. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Yes,  good  father'; 
Continue  daily  orisons  for  us 
In  these  dim  days  of  heresies  and  blood,  -I 
Though  the  schismastic  Swede,  Gustavus,  is 
Gone  home. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

To  the  endless  home  of  unbelievers, 
Where  there  is  everlasting  wail  and  woe, 
Gnashing  of  teeth,  and  tears  of  blood,  and  fire 
Eternal,  and  the  worm  which  dieth  not  ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

True,  father  :  and  to  avert  those  pangs  from  one, 
Who,  though  of  our  most  faultless,  holy  church, 
Yet  died  without  its  last  and  dearest  offices, 
Which  smooth  the  soul  through  purgatorial  pains, 
I  have  to  offer  humbly  this  donation 
In  masse*  for  his  spirit. 

[Siegendorf  offers  the  gold  which  he  had 
taken  from  Stralenheim. 

PRIOR  ALBERT.      r 

Count,  if  I 
Receive  it,  'tis  because  I  know  too  well 
Refusal  would  offend  you.     Be  assured 
The  largess  shall  be  only  dealt  in  alms, 


142  WERNER,  act  vi 

And  every  mass  no  less  sung  for  the  dead. 
Our  house  needs  no  donations,  thanks  to  yoursr 
Which  has  of  old  endow'd  it ;  but  from  you 
And  yours  in  all  meet  things  'tis  fit  we  obey ; 
For  whom  shall  mass  be  said  ? 

siegendorf  (faltering) 

For — for — the  dead. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

His  name  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

'Tis  from  a  Soul,  and  not  a  Name, 
,.    I  would  avert  perdition. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

I  meant  not 
To  pry  into  your  secret.     We  will  pray 
For  one_  unknown,  the  same  as  for  the  proudest. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Secret !  I  have  none  ;  but,  father,  he  who's  gone 
;  Mght  have  one;  or,  in  short,  he  did  bequeath- 
No,  not  hequeatj — but  I  bestow  this  sum 
For  pious  purposes. 

PRI    R  ALBERT. 

A  proper  deed 
In  the  behalf  of  our  departed  friends. 

SIEGENDORF 

But  he,  who's  gone,  was,  pot  my  friend,  but  Joe* 
The  deadliest  and  the  staunches!. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

Better  still, 
To  employ  our  means  to  obtain  heaven  for  the 

souls 
Of  our  dead  enemies,  is  worthy  those 
Who  can  forgive  them  living.  > 

SIEGENDORF. 

But  I  did  not 


sc  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  143 

Forgive  this  man.     I  loath'd  him  to  the  last, 
A.s  he  did  me.     I  do  not  love  him  now. 
But — - 

PRIOR    ALBERT. 

Best  of  all !  for  this  is  pure  religion  I 

iTou  fain  would  rescue  him  you  hate  from  hell 

\n  evangelical  compassion  ! — with 
four  own  gold  too  ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

Father,  'tis  not  my  gold. 

PRIOR     ALBERT 

iVhose  then  ?  you  said  it  was  no  legacy. 

SIEGENDORF. 

tfo  matter  whose — of  this  be  sure,  that  he 
Whoown'd  it  never  more  will  need  it,  save 
n  that  which  it  may  purchase  from  your,  altars  : 
Tis  yours,  or  theirs. 

PRIOR    ALBERT. 

,Is  there  no  blood  upon  it  ? 

SIEGENDORF.  f 

io ;  but  there's  worse  than  blood — eternal  shame  ! 

PRIOR    ALBERT. 

)id  he  who  own'd  it  die  in  his  bed  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Alas! 
e  did. 

PRIOR    ALBERT. 

Son  !  you  relapse  into  revenge, 
f  you  regret  your  enemy's  bloodless  death.  * 

SIEGENDORF. 

lis  death  was  fathomlessly  deep  in  blood. 

PRIOR    ALBERT.       '<r 

fou  said  he  died  in  his  bed,  not  battle. 

SIEGENDORF. 

He 


144  WERNER,  act  iv. 

Died,  I  scarce  know — but— -he  was  stabb'd  i'  the 

dark, 
And  now  you  have  it — perish'd  on  his  pillow 
By  a    cut-throat ! — ay  ! — you  may  look  upon  me  ! 
I  am  not  the  man.     I'll  meet  your  eye  on  that 

point, 
As  I  can  one  day,  God's. 

PRIOR    ALBERT. 

Nor  did  he  die 
By  means,  or  men,  or  instrument  of  yours  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

No  i  by  the  God  who  sees  *nd  strikes  1 

PRIOR    ALBERT. 

Nor  know  you 
Who  slew  him  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  could  only  guess  at  onet 
And  he  to  me  a  stranger,  unconnected, 
As  unemploy'd.     Except  by  one  da)'s  knowledge, 
I  never  saw  the  man  who  was  suspected. 

PRIOR    ALBERT. 

Then  you  are  free  fiom  guilt. 

siegendorf  (eagerly). 

Oh  !  am  I  ?— say  ! 
PRIOR  albert. 
You  have  said  so,  and  know  best. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Father !  I  have  spoken 
The  truth  and  nought  but  truth,  if  not  the  whole: 
Yet  say  I  am  not  guilty  !  for  the  blood 
Of  this  man  weighs  on  me,  as  if  I  shed  it, 
Though  by  the  Power  who  abhorreth  human  blood, 
I  did  not  J — nay,  once  spared  it,  when  I  might 
And  could*—- ay,  perhaps,  should,  (if  our  Self  Safety 


sc  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  145 

(Be  e'er  excusable  in  such  defences 
Against  the  attacks  of  over-potent  foes  ;) 
^  But  pray  for  him,  for  me,  and  all  my  house  ; 
For,  as  I  said,  though  I  be  innocent, 
I  know  not  why,  a  like  remorse  is  on  me, 
As  if  he  had  fallen  by  me  or  mine.  Pray  for  me, 
Father  !,  I  have  pray'd  myself  in  vain. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

I  will. 
Be  comforted  !     You  are  innocent,  and  should. 
Be  calm  as  Innocence. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But  calmness  is  not 
Always  the  attribute  of  innocence  :   * 
I  feel  it  is  not. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

{  But  it  will  be  so, 
(  When  the  mind  gathers  up  its  truth  within  it. 
Remember  the  great  festival  to-morrow, 
In  which  you  rank  amidst  our  chiefest  nobles. 
As  well  as  your  brave  son  ;    and   smooth  your 

aspect ; 
Nor  in  the  general  orison  of  thanks 
For  bloodshed   stopt,   let  blood,  you  shed  not, 

rise 
A  cloud  upon  your  thoughts.     This  were  to  be 
Too  sensitive.     Take  comfort,  and  forget 
Such  things,  and  leave  remorse  unto  the  guilty. 

[Exeunt. 

N 


146  WERNER,  act  v, 


ACT  V.— SCENE  I. 

A  large  and  magnificent  Gothic  Hall  in  the  Castlt 
of  Siegendorf  decorated  with  Trophies,  Ban- 
ners, and  Arms  of  that  Family. 

Enter  Arnheim  and  Meister,    Attendants  of 
Count  Siegendorf. 

ARNHEIM. 

Be  quick !    the  Count  will   soon   return ;    the 

ladies 
Already  are  at  the  portal  ?     Have  you  sent 
The  messengers  in  search  of  him  he  seeks  for  ? 

MEISTER. 

I  have,  in  all  directions,  over  Prague, 
As  far  as  the  man's  dress  and  figure  could 
By  your  description  track  him.    The  devil  take 
These  revels  and  processions  !   All  the  pleasure 
(If  such  there  be)  must  fall  to  the  spectators. 
I'm  sure  none  doth  to  us  who  make  the  show. 

ARNHEIM. 

Go  to  !  my  lady  Countess  comes. 

MEISTER. 

I'd  rather 
Ride  a  day's  hunting  on  an  outworn  jade, 
■t.  Than  follow  in  the  train  of  a  great  man 
In  these  dull  pageantries. 

ARNHEIM. 

Begone  !  and  rail 
Within.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  the  Countess  Josephine  Siegendorf  and 
Ida  Stralenheim. 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  147 

JOSEPHINE. 

Well,  Heaven  be  praised,  the  show  is  over !  , 

IDA. 

How  can  you  say  so  !  Never  have  I  dreamt 
Of  aught  so  beautiful.  The  flowers,  the  boughs. 
The  banners,  and  the  nobles,  and  the  knights, 
The  gems,  the  robes,   the  plumes,  the  happy 

faces, 
The  coursers,  and  the  incense,  and  the  sun 
Streaming  through  the  stain'd  windows,  even 

the  tombs. 
Which  look'd  so  calm,  and  the  celestial  hymns, 
Which  seemed  as  if  they   rather  came  from 

heaven 
Than  mounted  there.  The  bursting  organ's  peal 
Rolling  on  high  like  an  harmonious  thunder ; 
The  white  robes,  and  the  lifted  eyes ;  the  world 
At  peace  !  and  all  at  peace  with  one  another  ! 
Oh,  my  sweet  mother  !     [Embracing  Josefihine. 

JOSEPHINE. 

My  beloved  child  ! 
For  such,  I  trust  thou  shalt  be  shortly. 

IDA. 

Oh! 
I  am  so  already.     Feel  how  my  heart  beats  ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

It  does,  my  love ;  and  never  may  it  throb 
With  aught  more  bitter  I 

IDA. 

Never  shall  it  do  so ! 
How  should  it  ?  What  should  make  us  grieve  ? 

I  hate 
To  hear  of  sorrow :  how  can  we  be  sad, 
Who  love  each  other  so  enticely  ?     You, 


148  WERNER,  act  v. 

The  count,  and  Ulric,  and  your  daughter,  Ida. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Poor  child  ! 

IDA. 

Do  you  pity  me  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

No ;  I  but  envy, 
And  that  in  sorrow,  not  in  the  world's  sense 
Of  the  universal  vice,  if  one  vice  be 
More  general  than  another. 

IDA. 

I'll  not  hear 
A  word  against  a  world  which  still  contains 
You  and  my  Ulric.     Did  you  ever  see 
Aught  like  him  ?  How  hetower'd  amongst  them 

all! 
How  all  eyes  follow 'd  him  !     The  flowers  fell 

faster — 
Rain'd  from  each  lattice  at  his  feet  methought, 
Than  before  all  the  rest,  and  where  he  trod 
I  dare  be  sworn  that  they  grow  still,  nor  e'er 
Will  wither. 

JOSEPHINE. 

You  will  spoil  him,  little  flatterer, 
If  he  should  hear  you. 

IDA. 

But  he  never  will. 
I  dare  not  say  so  much  to  him — I  fear  him. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Why  so  ?  he  loves  you  well. 

IDA. 

But  I  can  never 
Shape  my  thoughts  o/him  into  words  to  him. 
.  Besides,  he  sometimes  frightens  me. 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  149 

JOSEPHINE. 

How  so? 

IDA. 

A  cloud  comes  o'er  his  blue  eyes  suddenly, 
Yet  he  says  nothing. 

JOSEPHINE. 

It  is  nothing  :  all  men, 
Especially  in  these  dark  troublous  times, 
Have  much  to  think  of. 

IDA. 

But  I  cannot  think 
Of  aught  save  him. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Yet  there  are  other  men 
In  the  world's  eye  as  goodly.     There's,  for  in- 
stance, 
The  young  Count  Waldorf,  who  scarce  once 

withdrew 
His  eyes  from  yours  to-day. 

IDA. 

I  did  not  see  him, 
But  Ulric.     Did  you  not  see  at  the  moment 
When  all  knelt,  and  I  wept  ?  and  yet  methought 
Through  my  fast  tears,  though  they  were  thick    • 

and  warm, 
I  saw  him  smiling  on  me. 

JOSEPHINE. 

I  could  not 
See  aught  save  heaven,  to  which  my  eyes  were     » 

raised 
Together  with  the  people's. 

IDA. 

I  thought  too 
Of  Heaven,  although  I  look'd  on  Ulric. 

N  2 


150  WERNER,  actv. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Come, 
Let  us  retire  ;  they  will  be  here  anon 
Expectant  of  the  banquet.  (  We  will  lay 
Aside  these  nodding  plumes  and  dragging  trains. 

IDA. 

f  And,  above  all,  these  stiff  and  heavy  jewels, 
i  Which  make  my  head  and  heart  ache,  as  both 
throb 

Beneath  their  glitter  o'er  my  brow  and  zone. 

Dear  mother,  I  am  with  you. 

Enter  Count  Siegendorf,  in  full  dress,  from  the 
solemnity,  and  Ludwig. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Is  he  not  found  ? 

LUDWIG. 

Strict  search  is  making  every  where  ;  and  if 
The  man  be  in  Prague,  be  sure  he  will  be  found. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Where's  Ulric  ? 

LUDWIG. 

He  rode  round  the  other  way 
With  some  young  nobles  ;  but  he  left  them  soon ; 
And,  if  I  err  not,  not  a  minute  since 
I  heard  his  excellency,  with  his  train, 
Gallop  o'er  the  west  drawbridge. 

Enter  Ulric,  splendidly  dressed. 

SIEGENDORF    (to  LudtVlg). 

See  they  cease  not 
Their  quest  of  him  I  have  described.    (Exit 

Ludwig)  Oh  !  Ulric, 
How  have  I  long'd  for  thee  ! 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  151 

ULRIC. 

Your  wish  is  granted—* 
Behold  me ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  have  seen  the  murderer. 

ULR1C. 

Whom  ?  Where  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

The  Hungarian  who  slew  Stralenheim.. 

ULRIC. 

You  dream. 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  live !  and  as  I  live,  I  saw  him — 
Heard  him  !  He  dared  to  utter  even  my  name.  - 

ULRIC. 

What  name  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Werner  !  'twas  mine. 

ULRIC. 

It  must  be  so 
No  more  :  forget  it. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Never  !  never !  all 
My  destinies  were  woven  in  that  name  : 
It  will  not  be  engraved  upon  my  tomb, 
But  it  may  lead  me  there. 

ULRIC. 

To  the  point — the  Hungarian ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

Listen  ! — The  church  was  throng'd  ;  the  hymn 

was  raised  ; 
I  Te  Deum"  pealed  from  Nations,  rather  than 
From  choirs,  in  one  great  try   of  "  God  be 

praised" 
For  one  day's  peace,  after  thrice  ten  dread  years. 
Each  bloodier  than  the  former  :  I  arose, 


152  WERNER,  act  v. 

With  all  the  nobles,  and  as  I  look'd  down 

Along  the  lines  of  lifted  faces, — from 

Our  banner'd  and  escutcheon'd  gallery,  I 

Saw,  like  a  flash  of  lightning  (for  I  saw 

A   moment,   and  no  more),  what  struck  me 

sightless 
To  all  else — the  Hungarian's  face  !  I  grew 
Sick ;  and  when  I  recover'd  from  the  mist 
Which  curl'd  about  my  senses,  and  again 
Look'd  down,  I  saw  him  not.     The  thanksgiv- 
ing 
Was  over,  and  we  march'd  back  in  procession. 

ULRIC. 

Continue. 

SIEGENDORF. 

When  we  reach'd  the  Muldau's  bridge, 
The  joyous  crowd  above,  the  numberless 
Barks  mann'd  with  revellers  in  their  best  garbs, 
Which  shot  along  the  glancing  tide  below, 
The  decorated  street,  the  long  array, 
The  clashing  music,  and  the  thundering 
Of  far  Artillery,  which  seem'd  to  bid 
A  long  and  loud  farewell  to  its  great  doings, 
The  standards    o'er  me,  and  the    tramplings 

round, 
The  roar  of  rushing  thousands,— all — all  could 

not 
Chase  this  man  from  my  mind  ;  although  my 

senses 
No  longer  held  him  palpable. 

ULRIC. 

You  saw  him 
No  more,  then  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  look'd,  as  a  dying  soldier 
Looks  at  a  draught  of  water,  for  this  man ; 


sc.i.  A  TRAGEDY.  153 

But  still  I  saw  him  not ;  but  in  his  stead — 

ULRIC. 

What  in  his  stead  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

My  eye  for  ever  fell 
Upon  your  dancing  crest ;  the  loftiest, 
As  on  the  loftiest  and  the  loveliest  head 
It  rose  the  highest  of  the  stream  of  plumes, 
Which    overflow'd    the    glittering   streets    of 
Prague. 

ULRIC. 

What's  this  to  the  Hungarian  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Much;  fori 
Had  almost  then  forgot  him  in  my  son, 
When  just  as  the  Artillery  ceased,  and  paused 
The  Music,  and  the  crowd  embraced  in  lieu 
Of  shouting,  I  heard  in  a  deep,  low  voice, 
Distinct,  and  keener  far  upon  my  ear 
Than  the  late  Cannon's  Volume,  this  word   f 
"  Werner  /" 


SIEGENDORF. 

!  I  turn'd — and  saw*— and  fell. 

ULRIC. 

And  wherefore  ?  Were  you  seen  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

The  officious  care 
Of  those  around  me  dragg'd  me  from  the  spot, 
Seeing  my  faintness,  ignorant  of  the  cause ; 
You,  too,  were  too  remote  in  the  procession 
(The  old  nobles  being  divided  from  their  chil- 
To  aid  me.  [dren) 

ULRIC 

But  I'll  aid  you  now. 


154  WERNER,  act  v. 

SIEGENDORF. 

In  what  ? 

\JLRIC. 

In  searching  for  this  man,  or When  he's 

found, 
What  shall  we  do  with  him  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  know  not  that. 

ULRIC. 

Then  wherefore  seek  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Because  I  cannot  rest 
Till  he  is  found.     His  fate,  and  Stralenheim's, 
And  ours,  seem  intertwisted  ;  nor  can  be 
Unravell'd,  till 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

ATTENDANT. 

A  stranger,  to  wait  on 
Your  Excellency. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Who? 

ATTENDANT. 

He  gave  no  name 

SIEGENDORF. 

Admit  him,  ne'ertheless. 

[  The  Attendant  introduces  Gabor,  and 
afterwards  exit. 

Ah  ! 

GABOR. 

'Tis,  then,  Werner  ! 

siegendorf   (haughtily ) . 

The  same  you  knew,  Sir,  by  that  name ;  andyow.' 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  155 

gabor  (looking  round). 
I  recognise  you  both  ;  father  and  son, 
It  seems.  Count,  I  have  heard  that  you,  or  yours, 
Have  lately  been  in  search  of  me  :  I  am  here. 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  have  sought  you,  and  have  found  you  ;  you  are 

charged 
(Your  own  heart  may  inform  you  why)  with  such 
A  crime  as \_He pauses, 

GABOR. 

Give  it  utterance,  and  then 
I'll  meet  the  consequences. 

SIEGENDORF. 

You  shall  do  so— * 
Unless 

GABOR. 

First,  who  accuses  me  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

All  things, 
If  not  all  men  :  the  universal  rumour — 
My  own  presence  on  the  spot — the  place — the 

time—' 
And  every  speck  of  circumstance  unite 
To  fix  the  blot  on  you. 

GABOR. 

And  on  me  only  ? 
Pause  ere  you  answer.  Is  no  other  name, 
Save  mine,  stain'd  in  this  business  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Trifling  villain ! 
Who  play'st  with  thine  own  guilt !  Of  all  that 

breathe 
Thou  best  dost  know  the  innocence  of  him 
'Gainst  whom  thy  breath  would  blow  thy  bloody 

slander, 


156  WERNER,  act  v.v 

But  I  will  talk  no  further  with  a  wretch, 
Further  than  Justice  asks.     Answer  at  once, 
And  without  quibbling,  to  my  charge. 

GAB  OR. 

'Tis  false  ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

Who  says  so  ? 

GABOR. 
I. 

SIEGENDORF. 

And  how  disprove  it? 

GABOR. 

By 

The  presence  of  the  murderer. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Name  him  ! 

GABOR. 

He 
May  have  more  names  than  one.     Your  lord- 
ship had  so 
Once  on  a  time. 

SIEGENDORF. 

If  you  mean  me,  I  dare 
Your  utmost. 

GABOR. 

You  may  do  so,  and  in  safety. 
I  know  the  assassin. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Where  is  he  ? 
gabor  (pointing  to  ulric). 

Beside  you  ! 
[Ulric  rushes  forward  to  attack  Gabor;  Siegen- 
dorf  interposes. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Liar  and  fiend  !  but  you  shall  not  be  slain ; 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  157 

These  walls  are  mine,  and  you  are  safe  within 
them.  \He  turns  to  ulric. 

Ulric,  repel  this  calumny,  as  I 
Will  do.     I  avow,  it  is  a  growth  so  monstrous, 
I  could  not  deem  it  earth-born  :  but,  be  calm  ; 
It  will  refute  itself.     But  touch  him  not. 

[ulric  endeavours  to  compose  himself. 

GABOR. 

Look  at  hi?ny  Count,  and  then  hear  me.  -f 
siegendorf  (Jirst  to  gabor,  and  then  looking  at 
ulric). 

I  hear  thee. 
My  God  !  you  look 

ULRIC 

How  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

As  on  that  dread  night 
When  we  met  in  the  garden. 

ulric  (composes  himself}. 

It  is  nothing. 

GABOR. 

Count,  you   are  bound  to  hear  me.     I  came 

hither 
Not  seeking  you,  but  sought.     When  I  knelt 

down 
Amidst  the  People  in  the  Church,  I  dream'd  not 
To  find  the  beggar'd  Werner  in  the  seat 
Of  Senators  and  Princes ;  but  you  have  call'd  me, 
And  we  have  met. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Go  on,  Sir. 

GABOR. 

Ere  I  do  so, 
Allow  me  to  inquire  who  profited 
By  Stralenheim's  death  ?  Was't  I— as  poor  as 
ever ; 

O 


158  WERNER,  actv. 

And  poorer  by  Suspicion  on  my  name. 
The  Baron  lost  in  that  last  outrage  neither 
Jewels  nor  gold  ;  his  life  alone  was  sought, — 
A  life  which  stood  between  the  claims  of  others 
To  honours  and  estates,  scarce  less  than  princely. 

SIEGENDORF. 

These  hints,  as  vague  as  vain,  attach  no  less 
To  me  than  to  my  son. 

GABOR. 

I  can't  help  that. 
But  let  the  consequence  alight  on  him 
Who  feels  himself  the  guilty  one  amongst  us. 
I  speak  to  you,  Count  Siegendorf,  because 
I  know  you  innocent,  and  deem  you  just. 
But  ere  I  can  proceed— Dare  you  protect  me  ? — 
Dare  you  command  me  ? 

[[Siegendorf  first  looks  at  the  Hungarian,  and 
then  at  ulric,  who  has  unbuckled  his  sabre 
and  is  drawing  lines  with  it  on  the  fioor — 
still  in  its  sheath. 
ulric  (looks  at  his  father  and  says.) 

Let  the  man  go  on  ! 

GABOR. 

I  am  unarm'd,  Count — bid  your  son  lay  down 
His  sabre. 

ulric  (offers  it  to  him  contemptuously'). 
Take  it. 

GABOR. 

No,  Sir,  'tis  enough 
That  we  are  both  unarm'd— I  would  not  choose 
To  wear  a  steel  which  may  be  stain'd  with  more 
Blood  than  came  there  in  battle. 
ulric  (casts  the  sabre  from  him  in  contempt). 

It — or  some 
Such  other  weapon,  in  my  hands — spared  yours 
Once  when  disarm'd  and  at  my  mercy. 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  159 

GABOR. 

True— 
I  have  not  forgotten  it :  you  spared  me  for 
Your  own  especial  purpose — to  sustain 
An  ignominy  not  my  own. 

ULRIC. 

Proceed  : 
The  tale  is  doubtless  worthy  the  relater. 
But  is  it  of  my  father  to  hear  further  ? 

\_To   SlEGENDORF, 

siegendorf  (takes  his  son  by  the  hand). 

My  son !  I  know  my  own  innocence — and  doubt 
not 

Of  yours — but  I  have  promised  this  man  pa- 
tience ; 

Let  him  continue. 

GABOR. 

I  will  not  detain  you 
By  speaking  of  myself  much  ;— I  began 
Life  early — and  am  what  the  world  has  made  me. 
At  Frankfort  on  the  Oder,  where  I  pass'd 
A  winter  in  obscurity,  it  was 
My  chance  at  several  places  of  resort 
(Which  I  frequented  sometimes  but  not  often) 
To  hear  related  a  strange  circumstance 
In  February  last.     A  martial  force, 
Sent  by  the  state,  had  after  strong  resistance 
Secured  a  band  of  desperate  men,  supposed 
Marauders  of  the  hostile  camp. — They  proved, 
However,  not  to  be  so — but  banditti, 
Whom  either  accident  or  enterprise 
Had  carried  from  their  usual  haunt — the  forests 
Which  skirt  Bohemia — even  into  Lusatia. 
Many  amongst  them  were  reported  of 
High  rank — and  martial  law  sl£pt  for  a  time. 
At  last  they  were  escorted  over  the  frontiers,    . 


160  WERNER,  actv. 

And  placed  beneath  the  civil  jurisdiction 
Of  the  free  town  of  Frankfort.     Of  their  fate, 
I  know  no  more. 

SIEGENDORF. 

And  what  is  this  to  Ulric  ? 

GABOR. 

«sj  Amongst  them  there  was  said  to  be  one  man 
Of  wonderful  endowments  : — birth  and  fortune, 
Youth,  strength  and  beauty,  almost  superhuman, 
And  courage  as  unrivalled,  were  proclaim'd 
His  by  the  public  rumour ;  and  his  sway 
Not  only  over  his  associates,  but 
His  judges,  was  attributed  to  witchcraft. 
Such  was  his  influence  : — I  have  no  great  faith 
In  any  Magic  save  that  of  the  Mine— 
I  therefore  deem'd  him  wealthy. — But  my  soul 
Was  roused  with  various  feelings  to  seek  out 
This  Prodigy,  if  only  to  behold  him. 

SIEGENDORF. 

And  did  you  so  ? 

GABOR. 

You'll  hear.     Chance  favour'd  me  : 
A  popular  affray  in  the  public  square 
Drew  crowds  together — rit  was  one  of  those 
Occasions,  where  men's  souls  look  out  of  them, 
And  show  them  as  they  are — even  in  their  faces  : 
The  moment  my  eye  met  his — I  exclaim'd 
"  This  is  the  man !"  though  he  was  then,  as  since, 
With  the  nobles  of  the  city.     I  felt  sure 
I  had  not  err'd,  and  watch'd  him  long  and  nearly: 
I  noted  down  his  form — his  gesture — features, 
Stature  and  bearing— and  amidst  them  all, 
Midst  every  natural  and  acquired  distinction, 
I  could  discern,  methought,  the  assassin's  eye 
And  gladiator's  heart. 


sc.i.  A  TRAGEDY.  'l61 

ulric  {smiling). 

The  tale  sounds  well. 

GABOR. 

And  may  sound  better. — He  appear'd  to  me 
One  of  those  beings  to  whom  fortune  bends 
As  she  doth  to  the  Daring — and  on  whom 
The  Fates  of  others  oft  depend  ;  besides, 
An  indescribable  sensation  drew  me 
Near  to  this  man,  as  if  my  Point  of  Fortune 
Was  to  be  fix'd  by  him.' — There  I  was  wrong. 

SIEGENDORF. 

And  may  not  be  right  now. 

GABOR. 

I  follow'd  him, 
Solicited  his  notice — and  obtain'd  it — 
Though  not  his  friendship  : — it  was  his  inten- 
tion 
To  leave  the  city  privately — we  left  it 
Together — and  together  we  arrived 
In  the  poor  town  where  Werner  was  conceal'd, 

And  Stralenheim  was  succour'd Now  we 

are  on 
The  verge — dare  you  hear  further  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  must  do  so — 
Or  I  have  heard  too  much. 

GABOR. 

I  saw  in  you 
A  man  above  his  station — and  if  not 
So  high,  as  now  I  find  you,  in  my  then 
Conceptions — 'twas  that  I  had  rarely  seen 
Men  such  as  you  appear'd  in  height  of  mind, 
In  the  most  high  of  worldly  rank  ;  you  were 
Poor — even  to  all  save  rags — I  wjould  have  shared 
My  purse,  though  slender,  with  you — you  re- 
fused it. 

o  2 


162  WERNER,  act  v. 


SIEGENDORF. 

Doth  my  refusal  make  a  debt  to  you, 
That  thus  you  urge  it  ? 

GABOR. 

Still  you  owe  me  something, 
Though  not  for  that — and  I  owed  you  my  safety, 
At  least  my  seeming  safety— when  the  slaves 
Of  Stralenheim  pursued  me  on  the  grounds 
That  J  had  robb'd  him. 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  conceal'd  you— I, 
Whom,  and  whose  house,  you  arraign,  reviving 
viper  ? 

GABOR. 

I  accuse  no  man — save  in  my  defence. 
You,  Count!  have  made  yourself  accuser,  judge, 
Your  hall's  my  court,  your  heart  is  my  tribunal. 
Be  just,  and  I'll  be  merciful. 

SIEGENDORF. 

You  merciful ! 
You  !  Base  calumniator  ! 

GABOR. 

I.     'Twill  rest 
With  me  at  last  to  be  so.    You  conceal'd  me — 
In  secret  passages  known  to  yourself, 
You  said,  and  to  none  else.     At  dead  of  night, 
Weary  with  watching  in  the  dark,  and  dubious 
Of  tracing  back  my  way — I  saw  a  glimmer 
Through  distant  crannies  of  a  twinkling  light. 
I  follow'd  it,  and  reach'd  a  door — a  secret 
Portal — which  open'd  to  the  chamber,  where, 
With  cautious  hand  and  slow,  having  first  un- 
done 
As  much  as  made  a  crevice  of  the  fastening, 
I  look'd  through,  and  beheld  a  purple  bed, 
And  on  it  Stralenheim  I 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  163 

SIEGENDORF. 

Asleep  !  And  yet 
You  slew  him — Wretch  ! 

GABOR. 

He  was  already  slain. 
And  bleeding  like  a  sacrifice.     My  own 
Blood  became  ice. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But  he  was  all  alone  ? 

You  saw  none  else  ?  You  did  not  see  the 

\He  pauses  from  agitation, 

GABOR. 

No, 
He,  whom  you  dare  not  name — nor  even  I 
Scarce  dare  to  recollect,  was  not  then  in 
The  chamber. 

SIEGENDORF  (to   Ulric.) 

Then,  my  boy,  thou  art  guiltless  still — 
Thou  bad'st  me  say  /was  so  once — Oh  !  now 
Do  thou  as  much. 

GABOR. 

Be  patient !  I  can  not 
Recede  now,  though  it  shake  the  very  walls 
Which  frown  above  us.     You  remember,  or 
If  not,  your  son  does,  that  the  locks  were 

changed 
Beneath  his  chief  inspection — on  the  morn 
Which  led  to  this  same  night :  how  he  had  en- 

ter'd, 
He  best  knows — but  within  an  antechamber, 
The  door  of  which  was  half  ajar — I  saw 
A  man  who  wash'd  his  bloody  hands,  and  oft 
With  stern  and  anxious  glance  gazed  back  upon 
The  bleeding  body — but  it  moved  no  more. 

SIEGENDORF.  *    * 

Oh,  God  of  Fathers  ! 


164  WERNER,  act  v.; 

GABOR. 

I  beheld  his  features 
As  I  see  yours — but  yours  they  were  not,  though 
Resembling  them,  behold  them  in  Count  Ulric's ! 
Distinct — as  I  beheld  them,  though  the  expres- 
sion 
Is  not  now  what  it  then  was  ;  but  it  was  so 
When  I  first  charged  him  with  the  crime : — so 
lately. 

SIEGENDORF. 

This  is  so 

gabor  (interrufiting  him.} 

Nay — but  hear  me  to  the  end ! 
Now  you  must  do  so.  I  conceived  myself 
Betray'd  by  you  and  him  (for  now  I  saw 
There  was  some  tie  between  you)  into  this 
Pretended  den  of  refuge,  to  become 
The  victim  of  your  guilt ;  and  my  first  thought 
Was  vengeance :  but  though  arm'd  with  a  short 

poignard 
(Having  left  my  sword  without)  I  was  no  match 
For  him  at  any  time,  as  had  been  proved 
That  morning — either  in  address  or  force. 
I  turn'd,  and  fled — i'  the  dark :  Chance  rather 

than 
Skill  made  me  gain  the  secret  door  of  the  hall, 
And  thence  the  chamber  where  you  slept — if  I 
Had  found  you  waking,  Heaven  alone  can  tell 
What  Vengeance  and   Suspicion  might  have 

prompted ; 
But  ne'er  slept  Guilt  as  Werner  slept  that  night. 

SIEGENDORF. 

And  yet  I  had  horrid  dreams  !  and  such  brief 

sleep — 
The  stars  had  not  gone  down  when  I  awoke--- 


se.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  165 

Why  didst  thou  spare  me  ?  I  dreamt  of  my  fa- 
ther— 
And  now -my  dream  is  out. 

GABOR. 

'Tis  not  my  fault, 
If  I  have  read  it. — Well !  I  fled  and  hid  me— 
Chance  led  me  here  after  so  many  moons — 
And  show'd  me  Werner  in  Count  Siegendorf! 
Werner,  whom  I  had  sought  in  huts  in  vain, 
Inhabited  the  Palace  of  a  Sovereign  ! 
You  sought  me,  and  have  found  me — now  you 

know 
My  secret,  and  may  weigh  its  worth. 
siegendorf  (after  a  paused) 

Indeed ! 

GABOR. 

Is  it  Revenge  or  Justice  which  inspires 

Your  Meditation  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Neither^ — I  was  weighing 
The  value  of  your  secret. 

GABOR. 

You  shall  know  it 
At  once — when  you  were  poor,  and  I,  though 

poor, 
Rich  enough  to  relieve  such  poverty 
As  might  have  envied  mine,  I  offer'd  you 
My  purse — you  would  not  share  it:   I'll  be 

franker 
With  you  ;  you  are  wealthy,  noble,  trusted  by 
The  Imperial  powers — You  understand  me  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Yes. 

GABOR. 

Not  quite.  You  think  me  venal,  and  scarce  true ; 


166  WERNER,  actv. 

'Tis  no  less  true,  however,  that  my  fortunes 
Have  made  me  both  at  present ;  you  shall  aid 

me, 
I  would  have  aided  you — and  also  have 
Been  somewhat  damaged  in  my  name  to  save 
Yours  and  your  son's.   Weigh  well  what  I  have 

said. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Dare  you  await  the  event  of  a  few  minutes' 
Deliberation  ? 

GABOR  (casts  his  eyes  on  Ulric,  who  is  leaning 
against  a  fiillar.) 
If  I  should  do  so  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  pledge  my  life  for  yours.     Withdraw  into 
This  tower.  [Opens  a  turret  door. 

gabor  (hesitatingly.) 
This  is  the  second  safe  asylum 
You  have  ofFer'd  me. 

SIEGENDORF. 

And  was  not  the  first  so  ? 

GABOR. 

I  know  not  that  even  now — but  will  approve 
The  second.     I  have  still  a  further  shield. 
I  did  not  enter  Prague  alone — and  should  I 
Be  put  to  rest  with  Stralenheim — there  are 
Some  tongues  without  will  wag  in  my  behalf. 
Be  brief  in  your  decision  ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  will  be  so. 
My  word  is  sacred  and  irrevocable 
Within  these  walls,  but  it  extends  no  further. 

gabor. 
I'll  take  it  for  so  much, 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  167 

siegendorf  (points  to  Ulric's  sabre,  still  upon  the 
ground). 

Take  also  that — 
I  saw  you  eye  it  eagerly,  and  him 
Distrustfully. 

gabor  (takes  up  the  sabre"). 
I  will ;  and  so  provide 
To  sell  my  life' — not  cheaply. 
\_Gabor  goes  into  the  turret,  which  Siegendorf 
closes). 
siegendorf  (advances  to  Ulric) 

Now,  Count  Ulric  ! 
For  son  I  dare  not  call  thee — What  say'st  thou  ? 

ULRIC. 

His  tale  is  true. 

SIEGENDORF. 

True,  monster  i 

ULRIC. 

Most  true,  father ; 
And  you  did  well  to  listen  to  it :  what 
We  know,  we  can  provide  against.     He  must 
Be  silenced. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Ay,  with  half  of  my  domains  ; 
And  with  the  other  half,  could  he  and  thou 
Unsay  this  villany. 

ULRIC. 

It  is  no  time 
For  trifling  or  dissembling.     I  have  said 
His  story's  true;  and  he  too  must  be  silenced, 

SIEGENDORF. 

How  so  ? 

ULRIC. 

As  Stralenheim  is.    "Are  you  so  dull 
As  never  to  have  hit  on  this  before  ? 


168  WERNER,  actv. 

When  we  met  in  the  garden,  what  except 
Discovery  in  the  act  could  make  me  know 
His  death  ?  Or  had  the  prince's  household  been 
Then  summon'd,  would  the  cry  for  the  police 
Been  left  to  such  a  stranger  ?  Or  should  I 
Have  loiter'd  on  the  way?  Or  could  you,  Werner, 
The  object  of  the  Baron's  hate  and  fears, 
Have  fled — unless  by  many  an  hour  before 
Suspicion  woke  ?  I  sought  and  fathom'd  you, 
Doubting  if  you  were  false  or  feeble ;  I 
Perceived  you  were  the  latter ;  and  yet  so 
Confiding  have  I  found  you,  that  I  doubted 
At  times  your  weakness. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Parricide  !  no  less 
Than  common  stabber  !  What  deed  of  my  life, 
Or  thought  of  mine,  could  make  you  deem  me  fit 
For  your  accomplice  ? 

TJLRIC. 

Father,  do  not  raise 
The  devil  you  cannot  lay,  between  us.     This 
Is  time  for  union  and  for  action,  not 
For  family  disputes.     While  you  were  tortured 
Could  /  be  calm  ?  Think  you  that  I  have  heard 
This  fellow's  tale  without  some  feeling  ?  you 
Have  taught  me  feeling  for  you  and  myself; 
For  whom  or  what  else  did  you  ever  teach  it  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Oh  !  my  dead  father's  curse  !  'tis  working  now. 

ULRIC. 

Let  it  work  on  !  the  grave  will  keep  it  down  ! 
Ashes  are  feeble  foes  :  it  is  more  easy 
To  baffle  such,  than  countermine  a  mole, 
Which  winds  its  blind  but  living  path  beneath 
you. 


sc.  i.  A  TRAGEDY.  169 

Yet  hear  me  still ! — If  you  condemn  me,  yet 
Remember  who  hath  taught  me  once  too  often 
To  listen  to  him  !    Who  proclaim'd  to  me 
That  there  were  crimes  made  venial  by  the  occa-  **  <* 

sion  ? 
That  passion  was  our  nature  ?  that  the  goods 
Of  heaven  waited  on  the  goods  of  fortune  ? 
Who  show'd  me  his  humanity  secured 
By  his  nerves  only  ?    Who  deprived  me  of 
All  power  to  vindicate  myself  and  race 
In  open  day  ?  By  his  disgrace  which  stamp'd 
(It  might  be)  bastardy  on  me,  and  on 
Himself — a.  felon's  brand  !    The  man  who  is 
At  once  both  warm  and  weak,  invites  to  deeds 
He  longs  to  do,  but  dare  not.     Is  it  strange 
That  I  should  act  what  you  could  think  ?  We 

have  done 
With  right  and  wrong ;  and  now  must  only  pon- 
der 
Upon  effects,  not  causes.     Stralenheim, 
Whose^Hfel  saved  from  impulse,  as,  unknown, 
I  would'have  saved  a  peasant's  or  a  dog's,  I  slew 
KnowM&s  our  foe — but  not  from  vengeance.  He 
Was  a  rock  in  our  way  which  I  cut  through, 
As  doth  the  bolt,  because  it  stood  between  us 
And  our  true  destination — but  not  idly. 
As  stranger  I  preserved  him,  and  he  owed  me 
His  life  ;  when  due,  I  but  resumed  the  debt. 
He,  you,  and  I  stood  o'er  a  gulf  wherein 
I  have  plunged  our  enemy.     You  kindled  first 
The  torch — you  show'd  the  path ;  now  trace  me 

that 
Of  safety— or  let  me ! 

SIEGENDORF.^ 

I  have  done  with  life  ! 
P 


170  WERNER,  aotv 

ULRIC. 

Let  us  have  done  with  that  which  cankers  life- 
Familiar  feuds  and  vain  recriminations 
Of  things  which  cannot  be  undone.     We  have 
No  more  to  learn  or  hide  :  I  know  no  fear, 
And  have  within  these  very  walls  men  whom 
(Although  you  know  them  not)  dare  venture  all 

things. 
You  stand  high  with  the  state ;  what  passes  here 
Will  not  excite  her  too  great  curiosity : 
Keep  your  own  secret,  keep  a  steady  eye, 
Stir  not,  and  speak  not ; — leave  the  rest  to  me : 
We  must  have  no  third  babblers  thrust  between 

us : 

[Exit  Ulric. 

SIEGENDORF  (solus) 

Am  I  awake  ?  are  these  my  father's  halls  ? 
And  yon — my  son  ?  My  son  !  mine  .'  who  have 

ever 
Abhorr'd  both  mystery  and  blood,  and  yet 
Am  plunged  into  the  deepest  hell  of  both ! 
I  must  be  speedy,  or  more  will  be  shed — 
The  Hungarian's  ! — Ulric — he  hath  partisans, 
It  seems  :  I  might  have  guess'd  as  much.    Oh 

fool ! 
Wolves  prowl  in  company.     He  hath  the  key 
(As  I  too)  of  the  opposite  door  which  leads 
Into  the  turret.     Now  then  I  or  once  more 
To  be  the  father  of  fresh  crimes — no  less 
Than  of  the  criminal !  Ho  !  Gabor  !  Gabor  ! 
[Exit  into  the  turret,  closing  the  door  after  him. 


sc.  ii.  A  TRAGEDY.  171 

SCENE  II. 

The  interior  of  the  Turret. 
Gabor  and  Siegendorf. 

GABOR. 

Who  calls  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I— Siegendorf !  Take  these  and  fly! 
Lose  not  a  moment ! 

[Tears  off  a  diamond  star  and  other  jewels,  and 
thrusts  them  into  Gabor's  hand. 

GABOR. 

What  am  I  to  do 
With  these  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Whate'er  you  will :  sell  them,  or  hoard, 
And  prosper ;  but  delay  not — or  you  are  lost ! 

GABOR. 

You  pledged  your  honour  for  my  safety  ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

And 

Must  thus  redeem  it.     Fly  !  I  am  not  master, 
It  seems,  of  my  own  castle — of  my  own 
Retainers — nay,  even  of  these  very  walls, 
Or  I  would  bid  them  fall  and  crush  me !  Fly  I 
Or  you'll  be  slain  by 

GABOR. 

Is  it  even  so  ? 
Farewell  then  !  Recollect,  however,  Count, 
You  sought  this  fatal  interview  ! 


172  WERNER,  act  v. 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  did: 
Let  it  not  be  more  fatal  still ! — Begone  I 

GABOR. 

By  the  same  path  I  enter'd  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Yes  ;  that's  safe  still. 
But  loiter  not  in  Prague ;— you  do  not  know 
With  whom  you  have  to  deal. 

GABOR. 

I  know  too  well — 
And  knew  it  ere  yourself,  unhappy  sire  ! 
Farewell !  [Exit  Gabor 

siegendorf  (solus  and  listening). 
He  hath  clear'd  the  staircase.     Ah  !  I  hear 
The  door  sound  loud  behind  him  !  He  is  safe  ! 
Safe  ! — Oh,  my  father's  spirit ! — I  am  faint 
[He  leans  down  upon  a  stone  seat,  near  the  wall 

of  the  Tower,  in  a  drooping  posture. 

enter  Ulric,  wih  others  armed,  and  with  weapons 

drawn. 

ULRIC. 

Despatch  ! — he's  there  ! 

LUDWIG. 

The  Count,  my  Lord  ! 
ulric  {recognising  Siegendorf). 

You  here,  Sir ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

Yes :  if  you  want  another  victim,  strike  ! 

ulric  (seeing  him  stript  of  his  jewels). 
Where  is  the  ruffian  who  hath  plunder'd  you  ? 
Vassals,  despatch  in  search  of  him !  You  see 
9Twas  as  I  said— the  wretch  hath  stript  my  fa- 
ther 
Of  jewels  which  mightform  a  prince's  heirloom ! 


so.  ii.  A  TRAGEDY.  If 3 

Away  !  I'll  follow  you  forthwith. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Siegendorf  and  Ulric.  * 
What's  this  ? 
Where  is  the  villain  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

There  are  two,  Sir ;  which 
Are  you  in  quest  of  ? 

ULRIC. 

Let  us  hear  no  more 
Of  this  :  he  must  be  found.     You  have  not  let 

him 
Escape  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

He's  gone. 

ULRIC. 

With  your  connivance  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

With 
My  fullest,  freest  aid. 

ULRIC. 

Then  fare  you  well ! 

F  Ulric  is  going', 

SIEGENDORF. 

Stop  !  I  command— entreat — implore  !  Oh,  Ul- 
ric ! 
Will  you  then  leave  me  ? 

ULRIC 

What !  remain  to  be 
Denounced — dragg'd,  it  may  be,  in  chains ;  and 

all 
By  your  inherent  weakness,  half-humanity, 
Selfish  remorse,  and  temporising  pity, 
That  sacrifices  your  whole  race  to  save 
A  wretch  to  profit  by  our  ruin !     No,  Count, 
Henceforth  you  have  no  son  ! 


174  WERNER,  act  v. 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  never  had  one ; 
And  would  you  ne'er  had  borne  the  useless 


name 


Where  will  you  go  ?  I  would  not  send  you  forth 
Without  protection. 

ULRIC. 

Leave  that  unto  me. 
I  am  not  alone ;  not  merely  the  vain  heir 
Of  your  domains  :  a  thousand,  ay,  ten  thousand 
Swords,  hearts,  and  hands,  are  mine. 

SIEGENDORF. 

The  foresters  ! 
With  whom  the  Hungarian  found  you  first  at 
Frankfort  ? 

ULRIC. 

Yes — men — who  are  worthy  of  the  name !  Go 

tell 
Your  senators  that -they  look  well  to  Prague; 
Their  feast  of  peace  was  early  for  the  times ; 
There  are  more  spirits  abroad  than  have  been 

laid 
With  Wallenstein ! 


Mnter  Josephine  and  Ida, 

JOSEPHINE. 

What  is't  we  hear  ?  My  Siegendorf  1 
Thank  Heaven,  I  see  you  safe  ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

Safe! 

IDA. 

Yes,  dear  father  I 


sc.  ii.  A  TRAGEDY.  175 

SIEGENDORF. 

No,  no  ;  I  have  no  children  :  never  more 
Call  me  by  that  worst  name  of  parent. 

JOSEPHINE. 

What 
Means  my  good  lord  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

That  you  have  given  birth 
To  a  demon  ? 

IDA  (taking  Ulric's  hand). 

Who  shall  dare  say  this  of  Ulric  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Ida,  beware  !  there's  blood  upon  that  hand. 

ida  (stooping  to  kiss  it). 
I'd  kiss  it  off,  though  it  were  mine  ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

It  is  so  1 

ULRIC. 

Away  !  it  is  your  father's  !  [Exit  Ulric. 

IDA. 

Oh,  great  God  1 
And  I  have  loved  this  man  ! 

[Ida  falls  senseless — Josefihine  stands  speech- 
less with  horror. 

SIEGENDORF. 

The  wretch  hath  slain 
Them  both !— My  Josephine !  we  are  now  alone ! 
Would  we  had  ever  been  so  ! — All  is  over 
For  me  ! — Now  open  wide,  my  sire,  thy  grave  ; 
Thy  curse  hath  dug  it  deeper  for  thy  son 
In  mine  1 — The  race  of  Siegendorf  is  past ! 


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